The Silk Thread
by LoverGurrl411
Summary: Dumbledore's dead, the ministry's desperate and crumbling around them, and war is on the horizon-but the only war that truly matters has yet to begin: the war of hearts. In between silence and hatred lies a twisted desire that will either consume them, or help them survive Voldemort's rise to power together. Marriage Law Fic. AU Seventh Year. HBP Compliant.
1. The Temptation of Choice

Disclaimer – I own nothing.

A.N – Welcome all! So I've had this in my head for a while, and I couldn't get it out, so I outlined, and here it is. I know, lots of people have done marriage fics but I'm hoping to add something new to the table, which I warn you now, I may fail at. On that note, **this story is HBP compliant, AU Seventh Year**. This is going to get gritty, and raw at times, but I sincerely hope you will enjoy the ride anyway.

**Note: **For those of you who are new to my stories, **this story will be categorized as complete, and** **I will make sure that no chapter ends on a cliffhanger so that the story will feel complete until the next chapter. However, I usually update about once a month**, sometimes twice depending on my schedule—when the story is complete to my liking you will know it because it will say "The End." Well, hope everyone enjoys!

A.A.N – The opening paragraph is from _A Tale of Two Cities_ by Charles Dickens.

_/And I wanted it, I wanted it bad, but there were so many red flags_

_Now another one bites the dust; yeah, let's be clear, I'll trust not one. _

_You did not break me, I'm still fighting for peace_

_Well, I've got thick skin and an elastic heart_

_But your blade—it might be too sharp/_

_-_Elastic Heart, Sia

Chapter 1 – The Temptation of Choice

_It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only._

Hermione looked at Draco Malfoy – broad shoulders, eyes made of ice, tall and dominating presence; she knew that she was looking at a man that could convince her that the devil had a nice side…but she had to be strong; she had to be wise in her decision…she had to remember that she does not _know_ him, so as to give him a fair chance; but it was _so hard_ after so many years, after knowing that _he_ was the reason a great man was dead, to look a man in the eyes that had despised you a week ago, only to find that today he desired to be your husband. But he wasn't a man yet, not yet.

"The marriage law will blow over, you know," Hermione lied. She knew it wouldn't, and so did he. It was a test, and he knew it was one. The Ministry of Magic was too desperate, too hopeful that Purebloods forcibly marrying muggle-borns and halfboods will bridge the divide between them.

Draco raised one eyebrow, and without words acknowledged what she tried and had failed to do.

"Granger," Draco stood by the window of the living room in a fancy _muggle_ hotel Presidential suite, regal in his posture and king in his domain. He looked strong; a stark contrast to the unraveling boy he'd been at the end of Sixth Year. "I know our history has been a volatile one."

"Exactly," she leaned forward. "You've hated me for the last—what, five years? There are countless muggle-borns out there. Why me?"

"Because if I _must_ marry a muggle-born then I'm at least going to marry the best one of the lot," he replied simply. It was his truth in all of its arrogant glory, and Hermione couldn't even fault him for it. This was who he was—arrogant, prideful, and relentless when he wanted something.

Today, he wanted her, and Hermione had yet to know what to do with that fact.

"I know two others have petitioned for your hand—Weasley and McLaggen." He looked over at her, and she didn't look away.

She wasn't ashamed or embarrassed that one was her best friend and the other is even more arrogant than Draco with less reason to be. She could almost shudder at the thought of Mclaggen's attempt at wooing at Slughorn's party—what now feels like a lifetime ago. _Focus_.

"Even without Ron or McLaggen, we're on opposite sides of _everything_, Malfoy. Why would I marry you?" Hermione asked him honestly. His reasons for entering his name to marry her made sense in a Malfoy-type-of-way. But she was genuinely confused as to why he thought she would ever consider marrying _him_.

Malfoy took a moment, and thought out his answer. He knew this could make or break her consideration.

"Because as my wife you would have influence over me, and could help me see the light?" He deadpanned, but there was a teasing quality to his eyes that Hermione acknowledged with a roll of her eyes.

"Oh, yes, how could I forget that the sole purpose in my life is to make you see the error of your ways?"

"I don't know _how_, really, considering how irresistible I am," he puffed out his chest which earned him a raised eyebrow.

Everything was calculated with him—even the teasing glint. It wasn't _real_. It was a ploy, but she didn't call him out on it. This was who he was now that Voldemort had returned—calculated, cautious, _Slytherin to the bone_. They had all changed in their own ways.

"You know what they say about men who boast _too much_, Malfoy" Hermione tried to hit him where it would hurt.

"Tsk, tsk, Granger," Draco smirked. "Hitting below the belt won't work here. I have a _very good_ memory regarding a certain poll the fifth year girls had—_sexiest_ wizard in Hogwarts, was it? Nonetheless, I distinctly remember Pansy telling me I won by _unanimous_ vote."

"Yes, well, that was _before_ I knew you were going to try to _assassinate_ Dumbledore," Hermione tried to contain her glare as best as she could, but it was _so_ hard when Draco was being smug, and all she wanted was to knock him down a peg—make him just as uncomfortable as her. "Guess murder taints the looks, huh?"

Surprisingly, Draco let out a sharp laugh instead of the torrid of insults which Hermione expected. But this was _now_, and nothing was the same—not anymore.

"Has Saint Potter been telling tales again? Because I don't quite remember _murdering_ anyone," Draco's eyes were like steel, but his voice has an air of nonchalance that Hermione was sure he must have been born with.

_Because you were too cowardly_, Hermione wanted to shout at him, but knew that the words would be a step too far. His relaxed stance, so drastically opposite to hers, grated on her nerves. Inhale. Exhale. _Breathe_.

They'd gotten off track; there was too much honest animosity to let a moment of good-natured teasing last too long with them. There was _too much history_ between them.

"Why Malfoy, _really_?" Hermione asked, and he knew what she wanted. She wanted him to plead his case, the same way McLaggen and Weasley are expected to.

He nodded his head and looked away for a moment. Inhale. Exhale. _Breathe_.

"Have you ever been hungry, Granger? Have you ever been made fun of for having hand-me-down clothes? Because any child you have with Weasley would suffer that fate and you know it," Malfoy began, but Hermione opened her mouth to object. He held up his hand, which silenced her. "It's great to romanticize poverty, until you're living it. As far as McLaggen goes, you would murder him within a week! The guy's a dunderhead."

Hermione conceded mentally that McLaggen truly was a fool, but she felt slightly disappointed that _this_ was his defense. _This_ was supposed to make her choose him over Ron? It wasn't enough.

"I don't know about McLaggen," Hermione began, not willing to admit what she knew was true concerning McLaggen, if only to be difficult. "But poverty doesn't scare me, Malfoy. No, I've never been hungry and I've never wanted for anything, and yes, maybe it's all romanticized, but it's my best friend…I already know all that I need to know about him to be…happy."

"One's poor and the other one's an idiot. How does that equate to happiness?" Malfoy rebutted, and Hermione's glare was its own defense against his words. "Love doesn't conquer hunger or bills no matter what you may want to convince yourself to believe."

"But at least he'll love whatever children we may have," Hermione fought back verbally. He wouldn't win this without a fight. "He wouldn't disdain them simply because my blood runs through their veins."

He sighed, and rethought his approach for a moment. He wasn't lying when he told her if he was forced to marry a muggle-born he wanted _her_.

There was something _there_, underneath the glares and the caustic remarks, covered by years of nurtured hatred that, now that it was legal and _forced_, he could acknowledge without shame. Malfoy walked over to Hermione, and knelt at her feet on one knee. He knew she felt it too, or else she would have already left.

"What could I say to tempt you away from _him_?" Malfoy asked, and they both knew he meant Ron. "I could offer you jewels the size of your palm, or a private island for you to leisure at your pleasure, but you don't want any of that. So what do you want?"

The question caught Hermione off guard, so much so that she couldn't lie to herself; she had no clue what she wanted, or what could tempt her away from Ron. The question was dangerous, and so was the response.

But she wouldn't lie. Not when Malfoy was being so honest, even though his eyes were still cool grey, and guarded against the world.

"I don't know," she whispered. She didn't know why she whispered, except that she was slightly ashamed of her answer even if it was the truth.

"Could you even _touch me_ without flinching?" Hermione lashed out in her shame. "A _mudblood?_"

The second the words escaped her, Malfoy's eyes bore into her like lightning, and his mouth was suddenly on hers a moment later. His kiss was rough and turbulent like the sea, and she was lost and helpless as she drowned in him; they were _best of times_ and _the worst of times_.

"_My wife_," Malfoy began harshly after their lips parted, "is _not_ a _mudblood_. My wife will be adored, and ravished until I have left an imprint of my body _so deep_ that with one look others will know she's _mine_. My _wife_ will be a _goddess_ among men, and my children will be princes in this world because no matter _her_ lineage, they come from my loins. So, _yes_, I will love them, and _yes_, I could touch you without flinching."

Hermione gasped slightly at his words, and he saw a spark in her eyes. He saw something primal.

He looked down, his mind racing a million miles per hour. He _knew_ he was _so close_, if only he could grasp the truth that hung deep in her heart.

And just like that the answer came to him.

"There's a war going on," he began slowly, letting his eyes pierce hers. "And I know what side you fall on, but as my wife you would have my protection. Regardless of any disagreements, or _conflicting ideologies_, you would be my _wife_, which means that I would protect you over anything in the world."

"Why?" She felt like a parrot, repeating the same questions, no matter the conversation.

"It's just the pureblood way," he whispered. "You would be my family, and I would do anything to protect my family. _Anything_."

Hermione knew she was missing something. It was in his eyes, the way they spoke to her—she wanted to claw them out so that he would have no effect on her.

"Loyalty isn't new to me, Malfoy," Hermione pursed her lips and replied coldly. "It may be a foreign concept to you, but—"

"Yes, your friends—the _Weasel_, would do _almost_ anything for you," Malfoy cut her off. "They would fight for you, and die for you. As my wife I would do the same; I'd fight and die, and _kill_ for you, and that's the difference, Granger. I would _kill_ for you, to protect and defend you as my wife, and that's one protection that your Weasley could never guarantee."

The second the words left his mouth he knew he had her. He was offering something that few would in this world, because they were too saintly. They were too good.

Hermione wanted to deny it. She wanted to call his bluff, and shout to the sky that anything he was willing to do for her, Ron would be willing, too…except she knew it wasn't true. She _knew_.

"I'm not a nice guy, Granger," Draco spoke, though he knew that silence would have benefitted him more. But he didn't want to _cheat_, not here, not when it could cost him so dearly later on. Magical marriages were forever; he wanted Hermione to know _exactly_ who she was choosing, and choose him anyway—_despite_ who he was.

"I know," Hermione conceded—she didn't dare to look away or speak louder for fear of crumbling under the weight of this moment. They were _seventeen_ for Merlin's sake! They were going to enter their seventh year in three weeks! Things should have been easy! But things weren't, and this marriage law, sprung from the depths of a terrified ministry barely holding on at the brink of all-out war, complicated things _too much! _

"I'll _never_ be a nice guy," Draco brought his point home. He wanted her to see a monster, because that's who he'll be when he takes the mark two weeks from now—a monster with at least some redeemable qualities, he hoped. "But I'll _defend_ and _honor_ you, as best I can. _De magia et fides_…if you'll have me." _On my magic and my honor_.

A pledge.

Hermione had been told once by Neville that purebloods bound everything with their magic—their word _literally_ was their bond. She had never been in a situation where a pledge was needed. She had never considered it before.

Draco had been counting on her lack of interaction with purebloods outside of the Weasleys to throw her—he wanted her to see how serious he was. _On his magic and honor, _and he had meant it.

But all that was left was her answer—would she accept?

Silence engulfed them like long lost friends, or hated enemies used to silence in between, and Hermione thought about the first time she had felt _desire_.

It had been the day she had punched Malfoy right after the Buckbeak incident. He had been so foul, and she had been furious. Her body had reacted before her mind had understood, words hurling forth my her mouth, wand drawn tight in her hand; then, without conscious thought, her body had pivoted, and her knuckles made contact with his face. And it had felt _good_. _Let him bleed_, she had thought, only to realize that he had never looked more beautiful than he had at that moment: blood running down his nose, red and bright against his pale and vibrant skin.

Her stomach had clenched, and their eyes met—and the magic in the air had been palpable for that one second where they both _felt_ but couldn't describe. The magic rising in light of their disgust at the alien feelings.

_Desire_ was a peculiar entity, and had been completely foreign to her. She'd had crushes—on Ron and Victor—but something about the fever that had spread in her belly had made Hermione nervous. The infinite moment had been lost, and Malfoy had gone running with his two lackey's right behind him—but Hermione had _seen_ the shame in his eyes…because he had felt desire, too.

And just like that the memory lifted, and Hermione was back in hotel suite, sitting in an elegant sofa that was ostentatious in its elegance and simplicity.

Draco Malfoy was on his _knees_ in front of her—silent, waiting for the answer that will change both of their lives irrevocably.

_This is dangerous_. _This could all be a way for Voldemort to get to Harry_.

The countless reasons that Hermione had for walking out without a second word flitted across her mind—and there were _so many_.

She looked into his eyes, and saw what she had seen then—_so much she couldn't understand_, so she let her body move without thought; she let her hand reach for his face, and saw the spark in those cold grey eyes, and whispered, "I'll have you."

As the words slipped passed her lips, unguarded, Hermione knew that she would rue the day she agreed to let Draco Malfoy tie the silk thread of marriage across her magic and bind them forever. She wished she was wrong, but _knew_ she wasn't.

She could see it in his eyes…he knew it too.

* * *

Sooo? What do you guys think?. Anywho, did you hate it? Like it? Let me know and Review! :)


	2. The Circle of Pain

Disclaimer – I own nothing.

A.N. – Thank you so much to everyone who has favorited, followed, or reviewed! Seriously, you all rock. On that note, hope everyone enjoys this chapter! :)

To **EndlessLoveEternally**, **mzutie8**, **LanaLee1**, **Stellaluna**, **LadyRana**, and **Guest**: Thank you sooo much for reviewing! Honestly, reviews put a serious smile on my face, and I look forward to each one no matter how short or long. You guys are awesome!

And of course, thank you to all who read silently—I feel the love!

_/And even though I know this fire brings me pain_

_Even so, and just the same_

_Make it rain/_

-Make It Rain, Koryn Hawthorne

Chapter 2 – The Circle of Pain

If love had wings, it would fly from person to person until the entire universe could fall in love. But love ran into a tornado and was swept up, forever lost, while Hermione and Draco sat in silence in the same hotel suite, drinking silently from their tea cups, as they filled out all the forms necessary to make their agreement official before either of them could change their minds.

She knew agreeing to this without officially allowing McLaggen to plead his case, or Ron to dissuade her of her choice was rude, but…

Silence was better than the vitriol that might spew from their lips if they spoke unchecked. Sometimes silence was _better_.

Finally, Hermione signed the last document and rested her hand. She'd been here for hours—room service had come and gone twice. Draco had barely uttered a word the entire time, besides asking her if she liked the accommodations. She'd thought the question was strange, but didn't make mention of it.

"Well, I should get going," Hermione stood awkwardly. "I need to spread the news to Harry and Ron."

"Are you staying at the Weasley's?" his voice was sharp, but nothing too out of the ordinary.

"Of course, that's where I always stay when I'm in wizarding Britain."

"I see," Draco turned around and walked to the window. She noticed that he did that often. "Perhaps you'd be more comfortable staying at this hotel?"

"No, I'm fine at the Weasley's," Hermione said flippantly as she grabbed her purse. "I've probably spent more time there then I have in my own house over the last few years."

"Let me rephrase," Draco's voice was hard as steel, making Hermione pause and her temper flare just on principle. "It would be more appropriate if you were to stay at this hotel."

"What's wrong with the Weasley's?!" Hermione exploded, her hands on her hips.

"What's wrong with my fiancé staying over the house of the suitor she rejected?" Draco raised his eyebrow infuriatingly. Hermione wanted to slap the eyebrow right off of his face. "Absolutely nothing," he finished sarcastically.

Hermione could see _why_ Draco would have a problem with it, and she could even see why it was slightly inappropriate, but what she couldn't abide by was the _way_ he said it. As if she didn't have a choice. Her choice was the only thing she wasn't willing to give up—_no matter what_.

"Exactly," she rebutted. "I _rejected_ his application, so since there's no conflict there, it isn't _really_ inappropriate. And on that note, when I want your opinion on my lodgings, I'll ask for it!"

She had tried to state her argument lightly, but the more she spoke, the angrier she became. She wanted to waltz out with a magnificent exit, but something in the way Draco stood—eerily still—made her stay where she was.

"Is that so?" he said softly. Too softly. The hairs on Hermione's neck stood up, and her shoulder's tensed. _Murderer_.

But he had admitted that he had never killed anyone before, and the thought comforted her slightly. The air was tense, and room service walked into this cold war—a pretty girl with old eyes, noting the tension and wisely remained quiet as she removed the food, and then herself.

The door closed with a quiet _click_, and suddenly, without warning, Draco's hand was gripping her arm painfully, and their bodies were pressed against each other. His wand was nowhere in sight, and so the thought never crossed Hermione's mind to try and pull out hers.

"Listen to me carefully, Granger," Draco's breath fanned her face, and she could hardly breathe. She hated him so fiercely that she was_ consumed_, and all she could do is grip his forearm right back. "I can deal with a lot of things: the Order about to have a backdoor entrance to my home, your loyalty to Potter, but what I _won't_ deal with is you disgracing our union. _Not ever_."

"And how is staying at the Weasley's for the next few weeks going to disgrace us?"

"People _talk_, Granger! People _always_ talk, and they'll say that you're marrying me, but you really want him, and _that's_ why you're staying with the Weasley's."

His words were sharp, and angry, but there was a sentiment behind them that Hermione wasn't sure how to grasp.

"They'll make me out to be a gold-digger," she said evenly. Draco nodded to the accuracy of her words, but frankly, she didn't _care_. After spending the better part of her life in the magical community, she'd learned that things like that mattered to Pureblood families—even the Weasley's, but Hermione was Muggle-born and always would be. A marriage couldn't change that, and in the Muggle world…the prevailing ideology was _do what you want, when you want, and damn what anyone else has to say about it_.

But none of that answered the question that mattered the most, so Hermione, fearlessly, asked, "why do you care?"

Unfortunately, Draco cared very much because he couldn't abide the world thinking the he was second best to a Weasley. _Over his dead body_—the very thought almost made him sick, but he would never admit it.

The moment of silence stretched between them, until she wanted to squirm, and take it back; but just when she'd had enough, Draco said, "I care about what's _mine_."

And just like that she could breathe again. And she felt disgusted that such words could garner a response from her. She missed the hate consuming his eyes, too occupied with her own; he hated that he _craved_ for her to be his. He hated her…he hated himself…_They_.

Her self-disgust was too great, and she pushed at him, and ripped her arm away, scratching his in the process. _Blood_. _Pure. His. _It was under her fingernails, soaking into her skin—she couldn't take it. _Too much_.

Draco, on the other hand, could only stare at how bright his blood looked on her skin. He could only focus on the sensation of the shallow cut—replaying the feel of her causing him pain. _He wanted her_.

_She wanted him_, _too_.

_They_. They remembered the feel of the other's lips, the electricity that fights the current of the waves in their veins…under their skin…But she turned, and sped away from him, letting the gap between them grow and grow until the ocean could fill the space between Draco and the door Hermione grasped with one hand; _it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness_.

He wanted to ask her not to stay at the Weasley's, but his pride was a force of nature to which he was always taught to submit to. Hermione _knew_, and yet to know and to _understand_ were never the same thing; but the papers were signed. The magic was sealed. All that's left was the ceremony. She'd _have_ to make this work…but there wasn't a wand to her head. She could still back out, they both knew it.

_What do you want_, he'd asked, and she still didn't know. But she remembered the kiss _so clearly_, and she wished to be drowned again and again until she discovered her own truth. So, she turned halfway, hand gripping the doorknob, eyes steady on wall, and said, "I won't be your dutiful wife, Malfoy. I won't kiss your feet and bow to your every will just because it's _your will_."

He heard her, and heard what she was saying without words—by sheer fact that she hadn't left yet. "I'm not asking that you _bow_."

"Just obey," Hermione threw back, and they both knew it was true.

"Serving the Dark Lord is…_hard_," he said seemingly completely left field.

"Want an award, Malfoy?" Hermione gritted her teeth. "Everything is _hard_ nowadays. You made that choice."

"I am who I am, Granger," Draco walked over to her slowly, counting the steps, giving himself time to come up with some game plan….but his instincts ruled supreme, and when he reached her he leaned down, swept her mass of bushy curls aside with one hand, and placed his lips softly on her skin.

_More_, Hermione thought as her eyes fluttered. _Please_.

But he didn't press harder, and she didn't plead.

_They_, even in a moment fraught with tension and need.

"I am who I am," he repeated as he pressed another kiss softly, but it was one too many, and he couldn't help pressing his body against her. Hermione, like the rock that she is, didn't move an inch and closed her eyes, letting herself be moved somewhere deep within her.

_Murderer_.

Her eyes flew open, and she turned to slap him away, but his body crowded her, and pressed her against the door as he inhaled her scent, and whispered in hidden agony, "I am who I am."

His eyes were closed, and he felt like the world was caving in on his chest—he felt _so heavy_. _I am who I am_, and this truth was as much of an apology as she'd ever get, but Hermione didn't need an apology. She heard what he hadn't said; Draco couldn't _ask_ her not to stay at the Weasley's because his pride couldn't take the hit.

It all came together in that wonderful _aha!_ moment she'd get in class. Serving Voldemort had already ripped his pride to shreds—Voldemort who wanted _him_ to _obey_ and _bow_.

She understood, but the hate she felt ran _too deep_, despite her desire. He let Death Eaters into Hogwarts; he may not have said the Killing curse, but he may as well have killed Dumbledore himself.

But his pain, though buried, was like an infected cut. Like the Dark Mark…and so she did the only thing she could do: Hermione lifted her lips to his cheek, _so close_, but didn't brush her lips over the skin, and said "I'll bring my things back here once I'm done."

Her words anchored him back into reality, and he inhaled her one more time, letting her smell fill him. Letting her smell him, too. _They, _and it would always be complicated. He wanted to sink into a quicksand made of her essence—so pure and righteous. He _hated_ how she sat on a moral high horse, but he couldn't deny that she played her part well. _Too well_. His disdain for her, so mixed with the need to _possess _and _condemn_ her, allowed him to move away from her.

The space was enough, and without another word she left.

* * *

Mrs. Weasley was overbearing as usual when Hermione walked through the door. Nonetheless, her motherliness warmed Hermione's heart considering she wouldn't see her parents until after the war was over considering she had painfully erased their memories and sent them to Australia.

Obliviation, contrary to popular belief, wasn't a painless act—especially not when done by an amateur. Memories were a part of a person, rooted in their essence. To extract a memory is like taking a piece of someone's soul—what makes them _them_, because every moment shapes the person they will be the next moment, day, year.

Hermione would never forget the way her parents screamed…she had felt like a _monster_, stripping them of any memory of having a daughter. Their screams would haunt her randomly since it had happened; they were like ghosts haunting her, forcing the guilt up. She would live to be one hundred and never forget…if she survived the upcoming war, that is.

_I would protect you over anything in the world_, Draco had said, but she couldn't focus on that. Not now, when she may sever one of the most important ties in her life.

They were in the kitchen at Grimmauld's place, and an Order meeting would be starting soon with the same core. Snape stood off the side, watching silently. Despite Dumbledore's letter to the Weasley's, Mad-eye Moody, and Remus explaining the circumstances surrounding his death right before it happened, many were still skittish around him—even more so than ever—so he kept to the corner as if it were a church offering salvation.

Mrs. Weasley bustled about, Remus sat calmly like only he can amidst so many people, and Moody sat, nursing what appeared to be coffee but everyone knew was spiked with some type of liquor. Mr. Weasley had yet to return from the Ministry, but that wasn't a new occurrence—the meeting would start with or without him at 8pm sharp. _Ten more minutes. _

Ron and Harry were looking at The Prophet, while Ginny—who'd be sent away as soon as the meeting started—was hovering over their shoulders. Harry, she knew, was just trying to look busy so he wouldn't have to face Snape. _Too much history between them, too_.

"So, how did everything go?" Remus Lupin asked.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at her—some a cursory glance to make sure she was unharmed, while others in expectation.

"It went…unexpectedly," Hermione said slowly. She didn't want to do this. She didn't. But it was the opening she'd been waiting for, for the last minute.

"Did Malfoy cry when you turned him down? _Please_ tell me he cried," Harry joked, but there was genuine contempt underneath the words that peaked through.

"He didn't cry…" _Be strong. Be strong. _"Because I didn't turn him down."

The smiles in the room disappeared. No one moved. It was as if time had been suspended, and they were all frozen with looks of shock emerging on their faces.

"Oh," Ron forced a dry laugh. "I get it. That's not funny 'Mione."

"No…it's not," Hermione had to swallow the lump in her throat to get the words out. Tears sprung to her eyes unbidden. "But it's also not a joke."

"_What?"_ Harry sprung from his seat in fury. His eyes, though, were pleading with her to fix _this_, whatever _this_ was.

"Oh dear," Molly gripped the kitchen counter with her hand and will made of iron. One look towards her heartbroken son made an angry fire burn within her towards Hermione.

Suddenly, as though the floodgates had opened, questions started barreling her way with no time for Hermione to actually answer any of them. But all Hermione saw was _him_. Ron. His crystal clear blue eyes so confused, his heart on his sleeve, a whirlwind picking up speed until there was determination etched into every inch of his face. He wouldn't lose, not to Malfoy. Not ever.

But he had already lost, and he didn't know it.

"Stop," Remus shouted, and the shock of this mild-mannered man raising his voice silenced the room. He nodded in approval, and continued. "Now, why don't we give Hermione a chance to explain."

The only one who hadn't said a word or asked a question was Snape, so Hermione looked at him and found an emotion she couldn't describe, but it wasn't condemnation so she held onto it firmly, drew strength from it, and looked toward her best friends.

_Explain_. How could she explain what she barely understood herself? But she had to try.

"Why?" Ron asked simply.

"He made me an offer that I couldn't refuse," Hermione replied just as simply. That was her ugly truth.

"Hermione," Harry tried to reason with her. "Whatever he offered you, you can't trust it. You _can't_. He's a Death Eater."

"So is Snape," Hermione pointed out thoughtlessly. The second the words were out of her mouth she felt like a cad.

_This_ is how she repaid his lack of comment or condemnation? She felt as though she truly was a monster. But the internal self-flagellation wasn't needed because no one commented, though some did squirm a bit. Harry was the only one who obviously wanted to say something rude, but he held himself back; it was a testament to how much they'd all changed in such a short time.

The difference at how they act, with _restraint_, now that there was no Dumbledore to shield them.

"Hermione…" Remus paused to try to word his thoughts carefully. This was already a precarious situation, and he didn't want to escalate it. "You realize that this _isn't_ the best of ideas, right?"

"I know," Hermione answered truthfully. She remembered silver eyes that knew it too, but shook her head to clear the image from her mind. "I'm taking a leap of faith, I guess."

"A leap of faith?" Ron finally exploded. It truly was a miracle that he hadn't sooner. "You're going to marry _scum_, and you want to call it a leap of faith, woman?"

"I'm not asking any of you to understand, Ron."

"Good, because I _don't_ understand." Ron pierced her with a look she'd never seen on his face before. "I—I know that we hadn't ever really _spoken_ about it, and you know I'm not the greatest with _feelings_, and all that, but, well, we had—there _was_ an understanding, wasn't there? I didn't just make that up did I?"

"No, you didn't," Hermione croaked out. His emotion startled her own to the surface with a vengeance.

"I don't have a mansion or a bank full of gold, but—_don't do this_," Ron pleaded and Hermione's heart broke in a way she didn't know was possible.

"It's already done, Ron" Hermione croaked out, too full of emotion.

"No it's not," he shot back fiercely. His eyes bore into hers like she had the solution to the mystery of the universe. "You can still back out—we'll go to the ministry right now, wake the whole bloody place up if we have to. There's still _time_." Hermione went to speak but he shot her down with a look and continued. "You deserve to be loved. More than money or jewels you _deserve_ to be _loved_."

No one said a word, too enraptured with the scene—of the promise of young love unfulfilled and unreasoned that was laying bear for them all on display in the kitchen that never saw any good news. No one could speak even if they wanted to. _Too much_.

"Do you love me, Ron?" Hermione had to ask—if he said he did, she'd take it all back. She'd walk away from Malfoy's kisses that hurt _so good_, if Ron loved her.

But Ron looked away guiltily…because, no matter how much he was so _sure_ he could make her happy…no matter how _positive_ he was that he could fall in love with her given some time…he didn't love her today, and that's all that mattered.

"So, what?" Harry interjected. "You're just going to marry him? Ignore the fact that he's a Death Eater?"

"Harry has a point," Remus pointed out. "What will you do once you're forced in front of You-Know-Who?"

The question was a valid one, but Hermione couldn't think that far ahead. She _couldn't_, or else she'd never go through with the wedding. _Murderer_. No, she reasoned, not murderer. Not yet.

"She'll _spy_," Moody exclaimed with a look filled with triumph. Only an auror could see the angle in such a situation.

"She's _just a child_," Molly practically screeched. But her protest fell on deaf ears because everyone knew that once she was married to Malfoy, she'd be in the thick of it all whether she spied or not.

"You think Malfoy wouldn't be expecting that? Maybe he only petitioned for Hermione so _he_ can spy on _us_ through _her_," Harry said reasonably.

The fire and anger were gone, and in its place was a friend—through his anger he had realized that Hermione had always backed him up, despite his bad decisions at times…and it was _his_ turn to back her up…to be an actual friend. But he wouldn't deny that it hurt. Somewhere inside of him he felt betrayed, though he knew he didn't have a right to feel that way.

"Yes, let's speculate instead of asking the source," Snape finally put his two cents in with an insulting drawl that had Harry grinding his teeth together. "What reason did Mr. Malfoy give you, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione wanted to crawl and beg forgiveness, because though her head swore that everything Harry had said was correct, and true…she remembered the way his lips tasted on hers, the way his body melded against hers, how it had all felt like _too much_ and _not enough_ because or despite of their mutual hatred for the other.

Hermione _remembered_ the way his eyes had looked the night of the Yule Ball when he had realized that _she_ was on Krum's arm. The disgust and _jealousy_ that had fought within a sea of silver had torn through any barrier and all she could remember of the first half of the night was how hard she had tried to not look at him. She kept reminding herself whenever her eyes strayed to him that she was just a _mudblood_ in his eyes, and he was just _scum_ in her eyes. And yet…

"Hermione?" Harry inquired, and brought her back to Earth…and subsequently away from the memory of Malfoy.

Hermione's eyes shot back to Snape, and realized that, though he had asked the question someone eventually would have asked…something in his eyes told her he already knew the answer. The knowledge that Hermione and Draco's twisted emotions concerning each other wasn't private made her blush.

Everyone saw the blush and misinterpreted it as embarrassment at sharing such an intimate conversation such as marriage.

"Well, go on, girl," Moody encouraged gruffly. "No need to be shy. What did the boy say?"

"He told me that…"Hermione paused, and collected her thoughts. She'd give them the only truth they asked for and not an inch more, she decided. "He said that if he _had_ to marry a muggle-born then he wanted the best one."

Surprise etched itself into every face except Snape's. His face was as impassive as always, and Hermione felt exposed—as though he could see her every secret.

"Typical Malfoy," Harry grumbled. "Entitled wanker, even after everything that's happened."

The door was heard opening and closing, and not a moment sooner Tonks and Bill walked into the kitchen, but no one paid them any heed. Someone would explain the situation to them later.

"Regardless, this is still an opportunity," Moody determined aloud.

"What you're asking of her is _dangerous_, Alaster," Remus cut in.

"Is Ms. Granger planning on changing her mind?" Snape once again cut through the situation.

Everyone looked at her with variations of the same sentiment: hope. But hope shined like it can die—in an instant.

"No, I'm not," she said with a finality that she felt deep in her bones. _Please understand, please._ But she saw that they didn't.

She saw firsthand, for the first time in her life, hope withering away in the eyes of Harry and Ron. She'd done that. _Monster_.

"See, the girl's already going to be in danger," Moody argued his point. "Might as well let her situation serve the cause. I'm not saying that she should poke her nose in everywhere, but to keep her ears open for anything that might be useful to know."

No one could fault his logic. She truly was doing this to herself—what harm could there be in helping the Order? _Betraying Malfoy_.

But it wasn't betrayal, not really. The words Draco had spoken earlier rush back to Hermione: _I can deal with a lot of things: the Order about to have a backdoor entrance to my home, your loyalty to Potter_.

He _knew_. Before she'd even thought of it, Draco had known that her love for Harry, her passion for eradicating Voldemort would take precedence over her duty to him. He _knew_ and he accepted it.

This knowledge was as close to a blessing as she would get from Draco, so she took it with a deep breath. She inhaled his scent that still lingered on her skin and let the words of assent leave her lips.

* * *

When Hermione returned to the hotel suite, Draco was nowhere near sight. She felt his absence acutely, and let the strange emotion crawl inside a corner of her heart and die slowly.

_Murderer_. He didn't deserve to be noticed or missed, she determined…but her traitorous mind brought his kiss to the forefront—it felt so real for a moment that she could have sworn he'd arrived and laid one on her. _What was she doing? What's wrong with her? Them?_

She flicked her wand and her luggage went sailing into the nearest bedroom. She looked at her wand—ten inches and three quarters long, vine wood with a dragon heartstring core. She felt the magic go through it, and remembered how it had felt the first time she'd held it in her hand…a lot like it had felt to kiss Malfoy.

The knowledge gave her the strength to curl up on the sofa, as though she were a little girl again, and cry until the Earth could be flooded. She cried until her soul felt purged of those feelings, all the while holding fast to her wand and the deliverance it offered.

She cried until she fell asleep, the moon high in the sky by then working its magic of rebirth; she never noticed that Draco had arrived, or that he had watched her from the doorway, completely still, as she wept…letting her tears chip at the dirt on his soul…tempting him with salvation with every tear, if only he'd walk over and comfort her.

He never did, but, perhaps someday. Someday, just not today.

* * *

Sooo? What do you guys think?! It took so much out of me to write this because of all the conflicting internal emotions. Anywho, hate it? Like it? Let me know and Review! **Reviews are Love**


	3. The Beats in a Heart

Disclaimer – I own nothing.

A.N – Thank you guys so much! But there's seems to be some confusion so let me clarify that right now. **Important:** **This story will have a minimum of thirty chapters! **So, yes, I am most definitely continuing this until the very bitter or beautiful end. Also, sooo sorry for missing my updates for the past two months! I went on vacation and just recently came back, but I'm back on schedule, and will even give a second update sometime this month as an apology! Anywho, on with the show!

To **AliceGI**, **viola1701e**, **Guest (1)**, **apolakay54**, **LadyRana**, **DragonxEye**, **Guest (2)**: Thank you guys so much for reviewing! It feels so great to know that others are liking this story as much as I do! Seriously, you guys rock. Your reviews definitely make me smile throughout the day when I'm having a bad one, so THANK YOU from the very bottom of my heart!

And to all who've favorited, followed, or read silently—thank you guys too because I can feel the silent love!

_/Mama take this badge from me, I can't use it anymore_

_It's getting dark, too dark to see, and I feel like I'm knockin' on heaven's door_

_Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door/_

-Knocking on Heaven's Door

Chapter 3 – The Beats in a Heart

Hermione awoke the next morning with an awareness that she hadn't felt since the day after she had been injured in the Department of Mysteries. It was in the way her breath picked up speed, and her hands shook slightly. _What had she done?_

But she didn't have time to ponder over the colossal mistake she might have made because Draco was leaning over her shoulder, his breath warm on her face. _What did he want_? She was still clutching her wand, but it was in a useless position.

"I know you're awake," he said, and the simple words, so dramatically different to the ominous feeling she awoke with sprung her into action.

Hermione sat up and pushed Draco away with a glare so fierce one would think he had single handedly destroyed the world…but then again, maybe he had in his own way.

"Thank you for stating the obvious," Hermione said snarkily, her head tilted down. She was hyper-aware of the fact that she might have morning breath, and that she probably looked disheveled. She wanted to look as composed as he appeared to be.

But he was anything but composed. Inside Draco Malfoy was a storm of fury and worry, which culminated into a tiny ball that banged against the inside of his flesh, knocking against his ribcage. But he was a Malfoy raised, and a Dragon _born_, and after everything that had taken place last year…he had learned to control that ball and mask it with a raised eyebrow and mocking lips.

However, Hermione could only see the outside, the _pretend_, and so she rolled her eyes and asked him, "what do you want, Malfoy?"

"You need to get up and get dressed," Draco didn't miss a beat, and spoke as he went about fixing a cup of coffee for himself and Hermione. "We need to leave in about forty minutes."

"Why?"

"We have to meet my parents to discuss wedding details."

The bomb was dropped, and Hermione couldn't breathe. His _parents_…his fugitive father…_no._ But Draco could already see the "no" on her lips and was ready with his answer. "You may not like it, and frankly, neither do I, but it has to be done. A lot of measures have been taken so he could meet with us in a place you'd feel comfortable, while not attracting attention. He still _is_ a wanted man, you know."

"Wanted? But Dumbledore's dead!" Hermione exclaimed as though the two things were mutually exclusive. And the fact of the matter is to her, Ron, and Harry, the two really were intertwined.

"Oh _please_," it was Draco's turn to roll his eyes. "Don't tell me you _actually_ thought the ministry would crumble just because Dumbledore died. You did didn't you?" He laughed as he added an exorbitant amount of sugar to his coffee.

Hermione wanted to kick him in the shin for his laughter, and berate him for adding so much sugar simultaneously. She wanted to bathe him in molten lava for speaking so casually about a great man's death. She wasn't sure that she didn't deserve the same fate though, and the doubt shook her.

"Well, it isn't that great of a leap is it?" Hermione shouted as she stomped angrily into the room and did a quick _Scourgify_.

She looked through her trunk of clothes for something appropriate, only to realize she was _looking for something appropriate_ for tea with Death Eaters. The absurdity almost made her laugh. Instead, she decided to wear the least appropriate thing she could assemble on a whim full of fire and hate.

"Maybe not to you Gryffindors," Draco scoffed, and sat down Hermione's coffee on the coffee table, as he sat himself down to sip his own as he waited for her. "But to the rest of the world who can see _past_ Dumbledore_, _and recognize that he isn't the center of the universe, it is a _huge_ leap."

Hermione could see the validity of his argument, and that only caused her frown to deepen. In her mind, Draco Malfoy was a snotty little boy who couldn't tell his head from his ass, so _why_ would he ever make any sense? But he does make sense, and Hermione felt uncomfortable realizing that _she_ was the blind. She had been the ignorant one. _No_, _that just couldn't be right_. So she rationalized her own logic.

"If the ministry didn't crumble, then how do you explain the Marriage Law? Are you going to tell me that the Law isn't a direct result of Dumbledore's death?"

"The Marriage law is the result of a bunch of old fools who think that by forcing people together the upcoming war will magically disappear," Draco frowned. "It's got nothing to do with Dumbledore's death and everything to do with the fact that the people making the laws are so old that they're not the ones who will be subject to it."

Hermione walked out of the bedroom at the end of Draco's diatribe dressed in jeans, sneakers, a red hoodie-sweater that said _Gryffindor Quidditch_ in really obnoxiously loud letters.

Draco took one sweeping glance at her and was not amused. "Really, Granger?"

Hermione simply smirked in triumph and passed by him to the cup of hot coffee sitting on the coffee table. "I'm ready to leave when you are," she informed him calmly, as though there was nothing amiss.

But there was everything amiss—she was terrified of this meet-and-greet. What if they tried to kill her on the spot? What if this was all an elaborate trap to capture her and torture her for information? She gripped the ends of her Gryffindor sweater tighter, hoping against hope that she could be brave when it counted.

Draco saw the fear lingering in her eyes, how she clutched to the hem of her sweater much like she had clutched her wand last night. He _saw_ and _felt_ for her in a way that was foreign, and yet not. He was no stranger to the helpless feeling of fear. He was no stranger to the way it could sink its teeth inside of you and _burn_ you from the inside.

He saw Mudblood Granger, trying to be brave, and hated her because he knew that she would succeed where he had failed last year.

With that in mind, Draco stood, arms tense from the sudden desire to reach out to her.

They stood, staring at one another, silence their subtext, and without a word, Draco offered Hermione his arm to apparate, and Hermione hesitantly took it. _Breathe_. But their breaths caught in their throat as their bodies swung out of rhythm with the Earth, and they were no longer where they once were—in the sanctity of a hotel room where so much had taken place between them.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy had eyes that bore into the very depth of a person, and saw their every fear and desire. At least Hermione finally knew where Draco got his soul-searching stare from.

But as Hermione tensely sat in an upscale _muggle_ establishment across from Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and Bellatrix Lestrange she had never been more grateful to have Draco Malfoy's stare on her side.

_Breathe._ _Don't Panic_. But no one was saying anything. She assumed that Bellatrix's casual and slightly crazy-sounding "Mudblood" had been a hello. Lucius and Narcissa had yet to say anything at all. Frankly, the only person seemingly relaxed was Draco, and Hermione knew that it was a lie—a front to cover the anxiety that rolled off his body heat.

"Well," Draco broke the silence. "Are we going to actually discuss anything, or did you call this little tete-a-tete for the view?"

"The view really is spectacular," Hermione interjected, spurned by a slight hysteria that was forming within her chest. Draco's hand casually brushed against Hermione's thigh, but she knew it was a warning: _relax._

But how could she relax? Maybe they planned to kill her the second she let down her guard.

"I suppose Mudbloods are easy to impress," Lucius sniffed in disgust.

"You shouldn't use that word, Lucius," Narcissa replied. "It's horribly _common_."

For a moment Hermione thought that Narcissa wasn't as prejudiced as her husband, and she couldn't help but smile bitterly when she realized that Narcissa was just as prejudiced as she had first assumed, only with more public tact than her husband and impeccably well-mannered—the perfect politician's wife.

"Well, I've seen," Bellatrix said softly, and for a moment Hermione could see how beautiful she must have been in her youth. But her voice made Draco tense, and Hermione tensed even further in response to his response. _Like bumper cars. Action, reaction. _"I've heard, and I can say with all certainty that _it_ is a _mudblood_, and _it_ should die."

"Careful, Aunt Bella," Draco smiled tensely, "Let's remember this mudblood is my fiancé."

"How could I forget?" Bellatrix asked, insanity intensifying her eyes. "You are about to _ruin_ our bloodline with _this filth!_"

Hermione wanted to retort, but Draco's hand that had brushed past her thigh like a feather beforehand, was now gripping her in a vice hold. This wasn't a warning anymore, this was a silent demand: _shut up_.

"Must we revisit this distasteful topic?" Narcissa wrinkled her nose in genuine distaste.

"The truth is usually distasteful, my dear" Lucius responded, but there was something about the inflection in his voice that made Hermione look sharply at him.

Lucius' gaze on Narcissa was regretful, as though he were telling a small child a harsh reality, and Hermione realized that perhaps that's exactly what he was doing…or she was reading way too much into the situation—a product of mounting panic.

"Cissy wouldn't know the truth if it smacked her in the face with her own wand," Bellatrix rolled her eyes, and the insane glimmer receded, dormant once again until the next moment when she lost control of her anger.

"Do you want the wedding to be small or large?" Narcissa asked Hermione directly, ignoring her sister's dig. Hermione was surprised to be addressed at the table so formally, but Draco's warning grip was enough to take her out of her stupor.

_Small or Large? _Hermione felt as though she'd been asked a trick question. Which was the right answer? Was there a correct answer? What would happen if she answered wrong? Would they _Crucio_ her? Would they _Imperio_ the correct answer out of her? _Don't panic, don't panic_. _This is a public space. _

But her breaths were coming faster again. Her composure was slipping, and Bellatrix—wild animal that she was on the inside—could smell fear better than a hound-dog. A slow smile spread across Bellatrix's lips, but before she could go on the attack a handsome waiter came to service them. Hermione was going to order some hot tea but Draco ordered a Brandy neat for the both of them.

She wanted to complain but before she could tell him where he could take his Brandy, Draco whispered, "trust me, you'll thank me later."

She didn't trust him, and she was positive that she wouldn't thank him later, but the intimacy of such a statement threw her for a moment. For one moment Hermione allowed herself to despise him just a little less, and in that moment, like rain on the wind, she felt swept up inside of his eyes. _And if people were rain, than he'd be a hurricane_, and she'd learn to accept all of him…his beauty, and the destruction that he leaves in his wake.

But people didn't fit quite that nicely, and the moment passed, and Narcissa was repeating the question with a small frown at having to do so.

"Whatever Malfoy—_Draco_ wants is fine," Hermione sipped at her Brandy. She watched as Draco took a substantial sip of his brandy; she noticed the way his Adam's-apple bobbed up then down again; she was entranced, but all the while Draco had been looking at her too; he noticed the way her tongue peaked out onto her mouth, savoring the sweet taste of the expensive Brandy.

_They_. In slow motion. In action. _Together_.

"Well, at least the Mudblood knows _its_ place—it wouldn't do for _it_ to think at all" Bellatrix sneered at Draco and Hermione.

"Yes, dear Aunt," Draco drawled sarcastically, "Because we all know how much the Dark Lord _loves_ it when you think."

The air was palpable with tension and fury from all sides. But the brandy was slowly relaxing Hermione's shoulders. Draco felt the change, acutely attuned to her in _every_ way, and turned his head towards her. She looked at him, too. Their breaths caught. Light bathed them from the window, and they were illuminated.

Draco's hand ached, and his hate crashed into his desire like a tsunami. Hermione felt her own body's betrayal, and understood the hate in Draco's eyes because she hated, too. _They. They want_, and Lucius, Narcissa, and Bellatrix _saw_. Their desire was a spectacle of the highest degree and deepest disgust for others. Their desire was dirty somehow—witnesses had done that.

They saw, but before they could say a word the Dark Mark on three arms burned.

It burned through the glow of want and resentment that had bathed Hermione and Draco, and they were left with a hollow feeling of discomfort beneath their skins.

"Our _Lord_ calls," Bellatrix squealed maniacally, and flew from the table in a glee so severe that Hermione wondered if underneath all the worship and the insanity and thirst for blood that was legendary, Bellatrix might actually _love_ Voldemort.

"We'll leave you to the details," Lucius said to his wife, but his hand lingered on the top of her head gently. He was clearly less enthusiastic about being summoned; the tension in the air now had nothing to do with blood status and flying insults, and everything to do with the fear of never seeing each other again.

Hermione had never contemplated before what it would be like for the wives or husbands of Death Eaters. The doubt in their eyes when they said good-bye, unsure if it was their last. She had never stopped to think that they could _feel _like she could feel, but she could see the small sliver of terror in Narcissa's eyes as she looked at Lucius' retreating back.

Draco had watched her watch his parents, and gave her that moment to understand—_there was no easy side, nor right, nor perfect. War is fear. War is endless. War makes everyone feel and hurt regardless of what side they are on._

War is in the beats of each of their hearts, and so he laid a hand on the curve of her neck, drawing her attention, letting his heat seep into her so that if this was their last moment, it wouldn't be superfluous words that she'd remember but the one thing that draws them together when they'd rather be apart: _heat_.

Hermione felt his hands, the same that let Death Eaters into a school of innocents, and didn't move away. She didn't move away, and felt so ashamed of herself, and of him. Her nails dug into her hand, pain focusing her. _Say something. Say something._ But Draco only let his hand linger for a moment, much like his father. Too much like his father. Perhaps she was more like Narcissa than she'd like to think—she wondered if there was fear in her eyes, too.

He walked away, and it was only when he was by the door that Hermione could say, "Be safe." His body paused, but he didn't turn around. She hoped that he heard her anyway, and turned to Narcissa—before her sat an ice queen, completely opposite to the woman who existed while Lucius was sitting next to her, and Hermione wondered if Draco's presence transformed her as well.

"They'll be back," Narcissa stated, as though Hermione cared. But she did. On some level she _cared_, and she wanted to cut herself open to take that piece of her out. "The heavens will never abandon their dragon," Narcissa said matter-of-factly.

_What the hell does that mean_, but it didn't matter because Narcissa started firing questions at Hermione at top speed from color preferences to favorite foods, and dictating proper Malfoy and Pureblood etiquette, the latter which lasted hours and made easier by the brandy in her system.

And as hours passed, Hermione could only be grateful for the distance between her and Malfoy and the desire which somehow always managed to swell in his presence. _Hate him_. _Hate him more_, Hermione coached herself with every minute, until she was sitting inside the hotel room convinced that he was nothing to her…nothing except her future husband.

* * *

The hour was late when Draco walked into the hotel room. He ran his hand roughly through his hair, and stared out the massive window that overlooked the city. Hermione heard the slight _pop_ and walked out of the bedroom where she had been doing some _light_ reading, to see him bathed in moonlight.

It was a stance that she was slowly becoming accustomed to seeing him in—looking out into the world as though the skylines in view had the answers to the universe.

The lights of the city sparkled and twinkled like fireflies from the moon—endlessly. _This_ was the city she had visited throughout the years, full of life and prospects, and fireflies. _This_ was the city that she loved in her bones, and she remembered the day she had heard that the bridge had fallen from a Death Eater attack—the glorious pillar that told people they were now in London.

Her heart had been full of hate, and sorrow, and she realized that she might share that sorrow with the one man who had always been her enemy—who still was in many respects despite their upcoming nuptials.

But she couldn't dwell on a bridge that sat in ruins miles away. She couldn't wish the beauty of it back into existence, and so she shook herself out of her reverie, and forced herself to let go of the fireflies.

"How'd it go?" she whispered, unsure of his mood after so much time spent in Voldemort's presence.

"You need to learn Occlumency," he stated, but that wasn't an answer at all. It simply provided her with more questions, and she _hated_ not _knowing_.

"Why?"

"Because I said so," Draco snapped.

"Of course," Hermione sneered. "I forgot that your name was King Malfoy."

"Don't make this an issue, Granger," Draco leaned on the windowsill with his arms. His forearms looked toned, and imposing—_he_ looked imposing in the dark.

Darkness had a way with making the most tame and agreeable men look ominous, let alone a man who was already tittering on the edge of his own darkness.

"How would I even learn? That's not exactly something that I can pick up from a book, regardless how much I loathe to admit it—not _everything _can be learned with theory."

"I'd teach you," Draco solved her problem with the ease with which he _created_ problems. "I'm _going _to teach you, starting tomorrow."

"Like hell you will!" Hermione exploded. "There isn't enough gold in your Gringotts account to make me _willingly_ open my mind up to you!"

_Monster_, she condemned. _Hypocrite_, she acknowledged. And suddenly, her memories were flitting across her mind. Her first kiss. The day she received her Hogwarts letter. The night she danced in Victor Krum's arms.

The memories were benign, but they were private. They were private in the way that her distorted desire for Draco was private. She felt violated, and yet, it hadn't been painful for her. The memories had risen from her as though she had been beckoning them herself.

But she hadn't. She _hadn't_, and the fury that rose within her could rival the volcanic eruption of Pompeii.

"_How dare you," _Hermione raised her wand—the first time she had since they met to discuss his proposal.

"I _dare_ because you will be my wife, Granger," Draco pierced her, but her fire wouldn't be extinguished so easily and he knew this. He knew _her._ The knowledge made her grit her teeth even more. "Whether or not you like the circumstances is something you will have to contend with on your own—I didn't _force_ you to agree to this union, but you did. And _because_ you did you're going to be around _many_…_unsavory_…characters. People who will gladly and _roughly_ pillage through your thoughts at a whim. You _need_ to be able to protect yourself. _I_ need you to protect yourself."

His last words were worth more than all the words he'd said to her all day. He needed her to protect herself because on some level, he _cared_. He might hate himself for caring, and resent her for making him care somehow, but he did.

Somehow, someway, that was enough to remind her of his subtle defense of her to Bellatrix earlier. _They_. But it wasn't enough to exonerate him. She wasn't sure what _could_, but his defense meant _something_, and so she looked away—unsure as to how to answer.

"My thoughts are mine," she tried to explain. "My memories are precious to me."

"And they still will be."

Hermione knew she couldn't give in, not like this, and Draco knew it, too. And suddenly, she remembered Ron looking away, silently admitting that he didn't love her. Draco might care on some warped level, but he didn't love her either.

"Why do I need to learn Occlumency so suddenly?" Hermione changed tactics. She needed to get at this at a different angle—a different _game_.

"You're marrying into a family full of Death Eaters, a significant part of the Dark Lord's _inner circle_, and you're honestly asking me _why?_" Clearly Draco played the game better than Hermione.

"How could I forget?" She responded bitterly, and the bitterness swept through the air between them and settled in like old friends. Their horrible history was back in between them.

"Your lessons start tomorrow," Draco said sharply as he turned to leave. "We can do it the hard way or the easy way, but tomorrow it begins."

Hermione wanted to yell and shriek and break everything inside. _Focus_. _Something sparked this_.

"What happened at that meeting?"

Draco turned to her, and felt his chest constrict—_what happened_? _The Dark Lord happened. Severus Snape, his own Godfather, happened. Fenrir Greybeck happened. _But he couldn't find it in himself to share so much. Or much at all, for that matter.

"What happened?" Hermione repeated, and this time Draco removed the gap between them. He let go of their history for a moment. He stepped into her space, and she froze, misunderstanding this Draco with the one that haunts her nightmares sometimes telling her that she's ugly and stupid, and _worthless_.

He saw the change in her eyes, but couldn't stop himself—his lips dragged themselves over her cheek. He remembered the Dark Lord's cackle, Snape's dispassionate voice, Fenrir's foaming mouth—the images swam in his mind and he tried to lock the memory away. He _tried_, but—"they threatened what was _mine_, and I'd see the _world_ burn before I let _anyone_ touch what belongs to me."

His heat, and words were too much, and suddenly Hermione was back to wanting him more than she loathed him. _Please, please. _But she wouldn't beg, and he didn't care to ask either, and so their lips met.

There was no romance, or sentiment; _it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity_, and Hermione chose to believe in his kiss and his _need_ to protect if nothing else. She chose to believe in the little boy who had never learned to share his toys, and whose pride refused to let him share as an adult. She chose to believe, but Draco couldn't find such blind faith within his grasp, and allowed skepticism and a magnificent inner pride to shroud every choice he made and will make. _They_, but they weren't who they were _before_, and the kiss adjusted with them.

The kiss changed with the beats of war and courage, and _hope_, and suddenly they weren't kissing anymore. Draco pushed himself away, and Hermione shivered. Action, reaction_._ _Come back_, but she'd rather skin herself alive than ever plead out loud to _him_ of all people.

"I don't want to learn Occlumency," Hermione let herself share the truth that was hidden inside of her stomach. "I know it's tactically advantageous, but I don't want to learn."

Draco heard her, and he felt a rip inside because he hadn't wanted to learn originally either. He had been scared of himself, too scared to find out what lived within his own soul. _You're not a killer_, Dumbledore had assured him, but the _yet_ was imminent. The _yet_ was what was inside of himself, and after mastering Occlumency, he _knew_ that he was—he just needed incentive—_reasons_ that were worth it in his heart. His parents lives weren't worth it, and the shame ate at him sometimes.

However, even his understanding couldn't change his mind; if she was going to be his wife, she'd need to know herself too, and understand just what exactly she was capable of.

Occlumency wasn't just to shield the mind, but to protect the spirit from people's true selves; to master Occlumency was to master oneself, and if she was going to be his equal, then she'd _need_ this.

So Draco leaned in, giving her time to move away this time. Hermione felt the shift, saw the compassion in his eyes, the _empathy_ that swam in liquid silver and _wanted_. _Breathe. _And their breaths mingled, and joined, living in a moment intertwined as the owners of these breaths adjusted the parameters of their relationship.

"I know you're scared," Draco whispered hoarsely. "I was too, when I was forced to learn last year. But you can't go _beyond_ your blood, beyond the past, if you don't learn Occlumency. If you don't learn…you and I may never be more than married enemies, sharing passions at a whim, not _truly_ knowing the other."

His words were honest. His eyes were steady. His touch was _present_.

Hermione _still_ didn't want to learn, but…the truth that swam inside of her was that she wanted to know him. She wanted to know him like a wife should, but she refused to admit it to herself, and so she discarded the thought and said, "This isn't for you. I'll need to protect the Order's secrets."

Draco nodded, accepting the lie as truth, and let his hand fall. He let his body move away and Hermione felt a slight chill creep up her arms. She looked out the window like she had when he had first arrived and noted, _we, we who were, we are the same no longer_.

* * *

A.N. – Sooo? What do you guys think? Too much? Not enough? I'm trying to find some kind of balance between the Draco that we love, and Rowling's Draco which was clearly unhinged by the end of HBP.


	4. The Minutes in Days

Disclaimer- I own nothing.

AN- Aaand I am back with another update for you lovelies. Firstly: you are all wonderful. Secondly: hope this chapter makes everyone smile.

To **Shellmar**, **moment4lifeee**, **VeraDeDiamant**: Thank you guys so much for your kind words! Seriously, if I could give you all actual hugs I would. Actually, take a mental hug anyway—those are still pretty great, haha. I'm also really glad that you guys feel the connection that I'm trying to establish between them. Anyway, hope this chapter is up to par with your expectations!

And to all you silent readers and those who've favorited or followed: I love you guys too! It makes me feel all warm and tingly to know that others bother to read what I write. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

_/Where do we belong, where did we go wrong? _

_If there's nothing here, why are we still here?_

_It's another time, it's another day—numbers they are new, but it's all the same_

_Running from yourself, it will never change—if you try you could die_

_Give us a little love, give us a little love_

_We never had enough/_

-Give Us A Little Love, Fallulah

Chapter 4 – The Minutes in Days

"You need to _focus_," Draco reprimanded Hermione. She glared, but she was too tired to respond with actual words. They'd been at this for three days so far. "If there's somewhere else you'd rather be, please feel free to tell me because if you aren't going to take this seriously, then I don't know why I bother."

His words riled her up, and made the hairs on her neck stand in anger; she decided she _did_ have enough energy to respond after all.

"Actually, I distinctly remember telling you that I _didn't_ want to learn Occlumency, so _yes_, there _is_ somewhere else I'd rather be."

"Yes, well," Draco waved her words away dismissively. "You also agreed willingly. This seems to be a habit of yours, isn't it? Agreeing to things, then becoming upset and frustrated when you regret agreeing."

They both knew that he was talking about so much more than Occlumency lessons. Hermione couldn't stand the subtext though, and looked away.

"Can't stand to look the truth in the eye?" Draco pushed. It ate at him that she might regret _him_, and he couldn't shake the feeling, but he wouldn't hide from it either. After looking into his own soul, there was no way he'd ever hide from the truth again.

But Hermione hadn't seen her own soul. She hadn't mastered or even begun to truly grasp the basics of Occlumency, and so she wasn't keen on facing truth head on. Not this truth. Maybe not ever.

But if this man-boy who she'd always thought was a sniveling rotten ferret could face the truth then so could she…

So she looked him in the eyes, and saw her reflection. She saw herself sitting on the floor, hair in a messy bun, eyes tired, and skin pallid from mental exhaustion. Her nails were digging into her palms, breaking skin, breaking a piece of her as she _tried and tried_, but all she saw was a woman-child who used to be like the sun to Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley.

She had been the sun, with its brightness and its answers to the universe—there hadn't been a question that Hermione couldn't answer, or a book that didn't have a solution to one of their problems. But books can't talk politics—not _really_. Books can't teach her how to _think_ or how to _react_ in situations that _can't_ be planned for, and require absolutely zero percent of magic.

Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Focus.

But her focus was lost within herself and Draco's eyes; his eyes told her all the truth she could handle, and yet nothing at all and she hated him dearly. She hated him with such a passion that sometimes, when he would kiss her with such pain and concentration, she'd forget to hate him at all—these moments had only happened a few times, but they humbled her because she knew he hated her, too. His hate consumed her, and reminded her that there were people that cared.

There were people who lifted her into the sky, and they were nowhere to be found when she needed it most—when Draco would peer into her mind and know her like she should know herself and see her as she was. On the floor. On her knees. Humbled.

"I miss being put on a pedestal," she admitted quietly to Draco.

Draco nodded his head, and said "Let's try again."

They didn't say it, but they both understood: one truth at a time.

* * *

It was one week into Hermione's Occlumency lesson, and one week away from her wedding day. Madam Summerlé, one of the most exclusive seamstresses in Wizarding Britain had outfitted her for her wedding dress yesterday. She couldn't sleep because every time she closed her eyes she saw Ron's betrayed eyes, felt Draco's tempting and haunting touch, the icey tint of her wedding gown, Harry's sad gaze—_too much_.

She tossed and turned, and tossed some more until finally she stood and walked out of her cold bedroom.

"Can't sleep?" Draco sipped his brandy calmly by the window sill. Hermione shook her head in the affirmative, and went to go to the kitchenette when Draco offered some of his brandy to her silently.

The silence was just as hard as words sometimes, and she wished he would scream like Harry or rant and rave like Ron…but he didn't. Draco wielded silence like shadows do the night, and she cursed his name as she took the brandy offered.

But this was the Draco she saw _now_, not the one he had been all of last year. Last year's Draco would have given Hermione _exactly_ what she wanted, and needed. But Dumbledore's death had changed so much. The Dark Mark had changed so much. His _failure_ had changed so much. His wounded pride had changed _everything_.

_This_ Draco wouldn't bend—not even for her.

Hermione needed to get the rage that was slowly building inside of her _out_, and so she faced him. _Him_—the husband-to-be who looked like her old enemy in the darkness. Perhaps he still was her enemy despite their upcoming union.

"Did you even think about Pansy when you placed your—when you asked me to—" Hermione tried to lash out, but the words kept getting stuck in her throat. She always pictured her marriage to be a romantic affair, with a proper proposal and _happiness_.

There had been a lot of emotions swirling the day they agreed to be united, but _happiness_ had not been among them.

"Did you think about your precious Krum when you accepted?" Draco raised an aristocratic eyebrow. He wasn't fazed at all, too used to these word games with Death Eaters—the purpose was all the same: to make someone hurt.

But he wouldn't let her bring him to his knees. Not today. _Not_ _ever_, he vowed silently, and so he focused on Krum instead of Ron. He already knew that Ronald had been on her mind that day.

"Don't you _dare_ talk about him! You're half the man he is!" Hermione raged, but she recognized her words as lies. She wasn't as sure about _who_ Draco Malfoy was anymore. She hadn't been sure since the day he had kneeled in front of her and kissed her ardently—years of _something_ that had been burning between them, beneath the surface, brought to life in this same room.

"Careful, Granger," Draco's steel gaze pierced her in her spot. "Someone might think you have a soft spot for the guy."

"Oh, wouldn't that just _kill_ you," Hermione smirked darkly. It transformed her features, but more importantly, she felt herself transform. She felt how _ugly_ of a human being she was being, and it tore at her that she couldn't stop—not when she _knew_ she could hurt him. "It would wouldn't it? The mighty Malfoy, _second best_."

"Ha," Draco gripped his glass harder but his nonchalant façade never cracked. "Is that what keeps you up at night, Granger? How to kill me? Because, frankly, most wives have the decency to at least wait until _after_ the nuptials to start planning how they're going to become widows."

"Most wives haven't been betrothed to you!"

Draco smiled slightly in agreement, and his smile warmed something inside of her. But his smile twisted cruelly and the _history_ came crashing down around her. She couldn't bear the weight of shame that filled her at night, in the dark, for every time she felt something other than resentment and hatred toward him.

Suddenly images appeared in her mind – images that didn't belong to her; Draco pointing a shaking wand at Dumbledore, Draco sitting in the middle of a forest with screaming people running in all directions—a Death Eater raid, Draco burying himself in Pansy's warm and nurturing body, Draco telling Pansy that he could never love her the way she wanted and deserved, Draco running from the Astronomy Tower—the feel of Snape's hand heavy on his arm.

The images came fast and hard, and left her panting and exhausted—a stark contrast to her wakefulness a few moments prior.

"Hate me, Granger," he pleaded darkly. "Hate me."

Hermione didn't understand. But she didn't understand herself either because she heard herself say, "no."

Her denial sat in between them like a double edged knife. _What were they even arguing about_? It didn't matter.

Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. _Focus._

Draco took another sip of his brandy, and Hermione leaned against the window pane—this was the closest to a truce as they could get. Draco understood the motion for what it was.

"What's keeping you awake?" he asked. No pretenses. Except _everything_ was a pretense with Draco. Since that night on the Astronomy Tower he hadn't been able to _breathe_ without proper calculation.

"I sent Ron and Harry and the Weasley's an invitation to our wedding."

He didn't need to ask. He already knew that they hadn't responded, yet. It was in the way Hermione jumped every single time an owl appeared in the window, or the way she would look longingly into the sky as if the RSVP's would magically appear because she willed it.

"I broke a good woman's heart," Draco sighed, and his sigh held the weight of the world. Hermione didn't need to ask. She _knew_, and the realization made her pause. Maybe she knew Draco a bit like he knew her.

"Would you really call Pansy a _good woman_?" Hermione raised her eyebrow. _Action, reaction_.

"Did you really expect a response from _them_?" They were back at square one; Draco didn't shy away from this battle. He understood that it was inherently who they were to one another. They were fierce, and this territory was unknown between them.

So they responded the only way they knew how: by taking one step forward and two steps back.

But darkness did things to people that reason could never explain, and instead of burning the white flag, Hermione let herself forget about their history for a second—just a moment. She let their history disappear with every breath and said compassionately, "you can't help not loving someone."

She remembered Ron's admittance that he _could_ love her _one day_, but all that mattered was that he hadn't loved her that moment. That moment which had decided so much for her. For _them_.

Draco felt their history seep out of the room through the cracks, and let his body move closer. He was always the one to breech the gaps between them, but it didn't bother him. Invading her space made him feel powerful.

Hermione didn't move away, and her eyes fluttered closed. _Why couldn't she let herself want him without reservation? _Because she didn't _know_ him. Not really.

But she knew how she felt as his free hand trailed up her arm. She knew that her heart raced whenever he entered her mind, worried about what he might see. She wanted to grasp him and hold him and make him _bleed_ until he could only bleed like _she _bled.

He brought out the worst in her, and sometimes, _sometimes_, he brought out the best in her—the girl who could forgive anything and show compassion to her eternal enemy.

But what was worse, the part about _them_ that she couldn't stand was that a lot of the times they were in between their worst and best. _It was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness. _

This moment was an in-between moment. All he wanted was to kiss her and break her and mold her into a woman who could stand by his side with pride. All he wanted was redemption in her arms, and he wanted to crush the piece of himself that thought she could offer him anything.

Hermione leaned in. The first time she had ever closed the gap between them. _Make me love you_. But she knew love didn't work that way.

All they had was desire as their lips met and crashed and burned _together._ _Burn. Breathe. More_. But they had nothing more to give except instances of desire because they didn't know each other, _truly_. And as their lips parted, the white flag which hung loosely between them fell to the ground and buried itself beneath miles of concrete.

They had nothing more to give except animosity and tension riddled with bitterness and lust; one truth at a time and this truth _hurt_ though neither would ever admit it.

* * *

_Two more days. Two more days. _But two more days until the wedding might as well be two more seconds for all the anxiety that tore at Hermione's chest.

_Breathe. Relax. _But she_ couldn't_ breathe when she _knew_ what was to come. _Marriage. Duty. War_. Everything felt like it was piling on top of a hill inside of her and it was going to topple over any moment. Every second that passed was one leading her closer to Draco.

And so she cleaned _everything_ the muggle way. Draco was appalled, but distracted himself with various letters that needed his attention. Hermione wasn't sure what the letters entailed, but she was too anxious to ask.

"For Merlin's sake! You need to settle down, Granger," Draco snapped. He'd had enough of her pacing and incessant cleaning. "You look as if you're about to jump out of your skin!"

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Hermione glared. _This_ was as good of a distraction as she was going to get. "Perhaps you'd like an award for your marvelous skills of observation?"

"Yes, please. I'd take you _sitting the bloody hell down_ as a _wonderful_ award."

"Aren't you the _tiniest_ bit nervous?"

"About what?" Draco asked, but he already knew. He felt like his insides were rearranging themselves, but Hermione couldn't know that. Hermione could only see the cracks as disregard.

"_About what?_" Hermione practically screeched. Her heart wouldn't stop running a million miles per hour, and she couldn't fathom that he wouldn't feel the same. "About _our marriage, that's what_!"

He smirked in that arrogant manner of his that infuriated her and lit her afire in the most wonderfully uncomfortable way.

"I have every faith that I can handle our _marital affairs_," he licked his lips lasciviously.

"You're disgusting," Hermione turned her back to him so he wouldn't see the burn on her cheek or the fire in her eyes. It was a two-fold fire that spoke volumes about their hate, and about how deeply she _desired_.

But Draco could read her anyway. He read the tension in her shoulders, and the rigidity in her posture, and _saw_. He saw the way her hair shimmered in the light, and the way her skin looked like the smoothest silk. He saw her innocence, and panic, and understood _now_ in a way that he hadn't fully grasped when he stole Pansy's virtue on a cold winter night.

He knew he needed to go back to his correspondence, but there was a fire in his veins that sprung suddenly; he remembered the day he had first called her a mudblood, and the tears that had glistened in her eyes—she had looked so beautiful, in contrast to how she normally looked to him, that he vowed to make her cry as often as he could.

It had been juvenile and obsessive, but he honestly thought that there was no prettier woman alive than Hermione Granger when she was crying. He had also been disgusted at himself for such thoughts.

Her tears were like water in the desert to him, but all the time she had simply thought he was cruel. She had thought the worst, and he had let her because he'd rather her think him mean than know the truth. But he wasn't ashamed of the truth, not anymore. Not ever again.

Draco stood from his position and walked right behind Hermione. His body heat cloaked her, and awakened her as well. His hands lifted and settled on her shoulders, and her breath sped up in panic—she wasn't ready. _Too much, too soon_.

Draco knew her fear and said uncharacteristically softly, "We'll take it as slow as you need, Granger."

Her disgust had vanished, and in its place was surprise at his ability to be overtly kind.

"I've never—" Hermione whispered.

"I know," Draco responded just as quietly.

He wanted to explain that he would be kind to her, and that she had nothing to worry about but he wouldn't lie—the _first time_ would bring her pain. Her pain would bring tears and her tears would feed something inside of him that growled and thirsted for her. He would enjoy her pain in a sick way that he really shouldn't, but can't help.

An owl plucked at the window, breaking the moment which had overcome Hermione and Draco. The owl was non-descript, but Draco knew the instant he saw it that everything would change. It was in the way Hermione smiled when she opened the letter, then hid her smile, and changed it to a frown.

"Harry and Ron won't be coming to the wedding," she pursed her lips. "No surprise there really."

Draco hmm'd noncommittally, but with a swiftness that came with being a seeker for so many years, he snatched the letter from her hands. Hermione tried to retrieve it back, but Draco simply side-stepped her. By the time her fingers enclosed around the letter, it was too late. Draco had already read its contents. _Keep an eye out for feathers and ashes._

"I guess it's their loss. I'm sure the cake and cheese will be wonderful," Draco shrugged, but his gaze was full of meaning.

He'd read the letter. She watched helplessly as he read it; it was pretty clear in the letter, though it was in code, that Ron and Harry would go to the wedding, masquerading as someone other than themselves. But they'd be there.

So why the pretense? Why verbally go along with what was clearly a lie and a betrayal on her part? She _needed_ to know.

"Why?" She couldn't finish the question, fill in the blanks. Their relationship was already loaded with so many why's that, frankly, an answer to any of them was better than no answer at all.

"Because to _suspect_ is never the same thing as to _know_." It was his way of demonstrating loyalty. It was his way of teaching her what the word means to him. "To know in your heart is never the same as to hear it with your own ears…and in two days' time you'll be my wife…and I'll expect that same fealty in return."

His words struck something inside of Hermione, and she couldn't shake it no matter how many seconds passed by.

"I can't betray the Order," she said slowly. She wanted to sound steadfast, but the truth of the matter was that Hermione wasn't so sure that Draco with his devilish charm and soul-seeing gaze couldn't tempt her somehow, someway to betray her friends in the end. _No. Never that_, she vowed to herself.

"I'm not asking you to, just like you haven't asked me to betray the Dark Lord," Draco responded silkily. And he was right. Because _to know in your heart is never the same as to hear it with you own ears_. But he will betray Voldemort. By _knowing_ that Harry and Ron will be at his wedding and not telling him, Draco will be betraying Voldemort.

Small acts of defiance, but what's more Malfoy-ish than to protect what's his? Hermione understood that. She was his. And he cared. All he asked for was her acceptance that once married, he'd be hers, too.

Loyalty to _each other_ above all else; the one truth that they both could actually stomach.

* * *

So, what do you guys think? I secretly love this chapter. I was trying to give you important snippets of time spent together between their agreement and their wedding day. Anywho, liked it? Hated it? Let me know and Review! :)


	5. The Wedding

Disclaimer – I own nothing.

A.N – So, I'm terrified about how this chapter will be received but I hope you all like it. This chapter, originally, was supposed to have more, but It was getting pretty long and I did want to give a Happy Thanksgiving gift!

**Important: I realized that I kept oscillating between Draco having the Dark Mark and **_**going**_** to get the Dark Mark. This is an oversight on my part, because at times I forget that this is the only aspect that isn't canon from HBP. Draco DOES NOT have the Dark Mark yet in this story. He will though, so read on. **Just wanted to clear that up in case anyone else caught that.

To **Shellmar**, **RoseQuartz**, **Chester99**, and **littlelam56: **Thank you guys soo much for your kind words! Every sing time I see your reviews my face lights up like a Christmas tree. There honestly is no such thing as too short or too long a review. I read every word you guys write with a massive smile. On that note, there really is a lot of sexual tension running around (haha) but hopefully some of it might be resolved by the end of this chapter. And Moody really is an idiot, but it's a situation where both Draco and Hermione are both inadvertently in the enemy's camp so-to-speak. The same way the Order expect Draco to spy, and everyone knows it, DE will expect it from Hermione and everyone including Moody know it, but no one ever knows when something will slip that wasn't meant to. That's kind of his thinking.

To all who favorited, followed and/or read silently, I feel the love so thanks for reading! Knowing people even bother to read my work really does make me feel all wonderful inside. ;)

_/Rough around the edges, memories and baggage, you know me_

_Never play the safe card, when I go, I go hard, now you know_

_I'm not the prettiest you've ever seen_

_But I have my moments, I have my moments_

_Not the flawless one, I've never been_

_But I have my moments, I have my moments/_

-Moments, Tove Lo

Chapter 5 – The Weddings of Fools and Wizards

Hermione's heart raced like she was running a thousand miles per hour. _Don't stop. Never stop._ But she did stop. She stopped and she was at the alter, staring into the eyes of her sworn enemy. She stared into his eyes, searched his soul but then remembered his first lesson of Occlumency:

"_The first and biggest mistake that many make when they try to learn Occlumency is that they focus on their thoughts and memories—on hiding them. The more you focus on what you want to hide, the more what you want to hide is exposed. It's the reason why so few can successfully learn basic Occlumency, and why even fewer can master it. The art is not in the memories or thoughts," he had explained and Hermione, despite herself, had hung on every word. _

"_So how do you master it?" she knew without asking that he was a master in Occlumency. The way he'd gone into her mind beforehand had proved it._

"_By mastering yourself," he had lifted his hand as though to reach for her, but thought better of it and let his hand fall. "Search yourself, see into your own soul and lay claim to it so completely that there isn't any doubt inside of you about yourself—who you are and what you're willing and not willing to do."_

"_Then what?" The question of the day. The wind stilled. The chatter and bustle outside the windows quieted. The world was at their feet for a split moment._

"_Then accept yourself." _

It wasn't about Draco's soul. Not really. Not for her. Not for this moment. Not for what truly counts.

As Hermione stood there, shoulders tense, eyes focused on his, breath shallow in anxiety and fear of the future and the past, she saw her soul and finally, _finally_, after two weeks of Occlumency and shying away from her own truths, accepted herself.

She accepted the deepest part of herself: the monster that lurked locked in a cage inside of herself who stole her parents' memories without hesitation and minimal regret, the little girl who never got over being neglected by parents with careers, the pre-teen who never understood why her natural looks weren't pretty or good enough, the lost teenager who wanted men to notice her but was ashamed of those feelings so she buried herself deeper in books, the victim of Draco Malfoy's verbal abuse who sat curled in a corner of her mind shivering and always waiting for another attack, the outraged friend of Harry Potter who raged quietly in a small white room filled with resentment towards him for taking up so much of her life—making her life all about him, and finally the woman who wanted Draco Malfoy with the passion of a thousand women.

She accepted all of herself, and breathed a sigh of relief and burden. _One step at a time._

Draco saw this acceptance—felt the Earth sway under his feet as he wished and wished and _there_. _Together_.

The relief he felt was so intense that he wanted to squirm in discomfort. _Why should he feel such relief? _Doesn't matter because the moment is over, and the ministry official bound their hands with a thread made of the finest silk. Only the best for a Malfoy.

The thread glowed and words are said by the ministry official, but they fall on deaf ears because Draco and Hermione can only hear the beats of their hearts that pounded in their ribcage.

Then the Seer stepped forward. She had been standing to the right behind the faceless, nameless ministry official. She looked ethereal in robes that flowed as though the Earth had become weightless. Her eyes glowed a bright golden, but she kept a steady gaze on their joined hands; she could see the silk thread of life flowing from one hand to the other. She could see their _souls_ binding, and what beautifully scarred souls they had. What monstrously unique souls they had.

Hermione shivered, slightly scared at what might be to come. She had never been to a magical wedding before. Without wanting to, her mind brought forth horrible blood magic rituals that always seem to be at the center at every muggle horror Wiccan film.

Draco felt her shiver, but couldn't bear to care. He was too focused on what he knew was to come: the greatest oath he'd ever made or will ever make.

"_How exactly do Wizards get married?" Hermione asked a few days before the ceremony. _

"_Most Purebloods, especially the Most Ancient and Noble houses get married in the old ways. With a seer, and a sacred circle," Draco answered her distractedly. He was trying to find a correspondence that he'd written to the Ministry requesting a specific Ministry Official. _

"_Why a circle?" _

"_Life flows constantly. It's a circle of life, of magic, of our bind because once we're bound, we can never be unbound," he responded. Hermione had realized early in the first week that he was a plethora of information. _

_Draco, being Pureblood and raised from birth in the wizarding community, knew so much that Hermione had never thought to ask about. Or could never find the answer to because it was an unwritten knowledge in the magical world._

"_So if we need a seer, then why are you writing to the ministry? Why do we need both there?" _

"_One officiates the marriage by law and the other binds us to the Earth."_

"_Oh, please! You can't possibly take Divination seriously? Have you met Trelawney?" Hermione remembered how much she disdained Trelawney and her prophecies and visions. No matter how hard she tried, she could never take the subject or its seers seriously, regardless if everyone's faith in Harry was based on his prophecy. She believed in Harry because he'd proven that he's worth believing in, not because some old bat said he was _destined_. _

_Draco stopped searching to stare hard and long at Hermione. There was something unsettling about his gaze, and Hermione wanted to fidget. But she wouldn't let him see her undone by him. Not today. _

"_Don't ever say something like that again," he admonished her gravely. There was an edge to his voice that she hadn't heard in a few days. "Do you know why a lot of Purebloods call Muggle-borns 'Mudbloods' instead of Muggle-borns or simply witches and wizards? Because of what you just said. Because of the foundation that lies beneath statements like that."_

"_What does one thing have to do with another?" Hermione lashed out. Her eyes were ablaze with indignation and she refused to take the attack laying down. "Purebloods who call us Mudbloods are bigots who can't get past the fact that we're all magical, and that's all that matters! And I'm not an idiot! It doesn't take a genius to understand that 'Mudblood' means someone who has dirty blood."_

"_That's not _all_ that matters, Granger, and you're bloody crazy if you honestly believe that!" His eyes flashed fire just like hers. _

_Draco may want her, and he's made his peace with that, but that didn't erase the foundations in Pureblood Supremacy that were a part of him. He may not spew _"Death to Mudbloods_" like many of his compatriots, but that didn't mean he didn't_ see_ why Purebloods saw Muggle-borns as less than. _

"_Magic is our very being, the essence of who the hell we all are," Draco began passionately. "Muggle-borns see and hear of things like Divination and scoff or laugh, not understanding that to see the future or the past is to touch the Earth in a way that few can. Some old country wizards who still worship in the old ways believe they're even touched by the Higher Powers themselves. To see even a glimmer of what might be is to _become_ magic on a completely different level. You lot use it as a punchline, and you do that because you don't understand that magic isn't just something to utilize. It's a living entity. It _is_ life. Every aspect of magic is life, which is why you hear of wizards who would rather be kissed by a Dementer than live in the Muggle world without magic. Because to us, who believe so goddamn fiercely in the life of magic, to live without magic is to exist without _living_. So, Purebloods aren't just talking about your blood when they call you lot Mudbloods. They're also talking about your faith. Your muddy faith that comes from living a life lacking the understanding of what magic truly is."_

_Hermione didn't know what to say. She couldn't fathom believing in magic as _living_, at least not the way he spoke of it. Not with that conviction. And suddenly she felt robbed of a faith; she'd never believe in that manner because she hadn't been raised believing in it. But she didn't know how accept that. She didn't know how to tell him that she can't accept that she'd been cheated somehow, because if she did than she'd fill her heart with resentment and she'd rather be "less than" than be bitter. _

_The silence reigned, and governed over them until Draco felt compelled to fill the space with the one thing he hadn't addressed. "Trust me, it's a worse insult than you might grasp, which is why the Slytherins would constantly repeat it…So be _grateful_ that we'll have a Seer at our wedding. It's an honor that some aren't afforded because Seers are a dime a dozen. It's also a statement to everyone watching that you may be Muggle-born, but you're no Mudblood."_

_He was elevating her in the only way he knew how. His explanation had been harsh, and brutal in a way Hermione wasn't quite used to, but it was also straightforward and completely Malfoy. She remembered the time she had explained what Mudblood meant to Harry, and Ron had stayed suspiciously silent. At the time she had thought she had explained it adequately enough. Now, she knew it was because he either hadn't had the heart to tell her the full extent of the insult, or because, though he knew what the insult meant, at the tender age of eleven, he hadn't been able to verbalize it properly. _

_She may never be able to look at magic the way Draco and every other Pureblood did, but at least she could say that she knew the _value_ of magic…it was enough at that moment. _

"As you stand in the circle, the journey in your futures are clear. Let the water from the morning dew forever cleanse you. Let the fire in your hearts forever fight for one another. Let the wind in the air forever crash against your enemies. Let the Earth beneath your feet never abandon you, so that you may not forget who you are." the Seer demanded in a quiet yet strong voice. She cut through where the ministry official had failed. "Vow to the Earth, so that it may bind you forevermore."

Hermione's heartbeat crashed against her like waves, and her eyes bulged. She didn't know what to vow! _What was the proper protocol_? Draco saw her panic, and decided to save her the heart attack and go first.

"I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, will my soul into obedience and claim the Earth as my guide in this life and the next in my journey to protect and shield and be forever faithful to this union. De…" he choked for a moment. The words stuck in his throat. The pledge weighing him down. But he remembered how deeply she moved him when he despaired silently, in secret. He remembered her kisses, and his passion; he would never run from his own truth. "_De magia et fides….forever." On my magic and honor._

Hermione believed Draco's hoarsely whispered pledge, though the statement was left too open—so many words waiting and wanting to fill it, and no words adequate enough.

"I, Hermione Jean Granger, will my soul into obedience…and claim the Earth as my guide in this life and the next in my journey to protect and shield and be faithful—forever faithful to this union. _De magia et fides_," Hermione parroted, though she stumbled slightly, trying to remember what he had just said word for word. "Forever."

It was the first time she had ever bound her word with her magic, and now that she had she finally understood why Purebloods did it—the feeling of her magic coursing, _pulsing_, through her body was indescribable. Unmatchable.

The Seer whispered, "_Never forget that the heavens will never abandon their dragon…or those under his protection."_

Hermione wanted to question _what they hell everyone seemed to be talking about_ concerning the heavens and dragons, remembering that Narcissa Malfoy said pretty much the same thing, but the Seer stepped forward.

"Bear witness and behold, Draco Lucius Malfoy and his _wife_, Hermione Jean _Malfoy_." The Seer called out to everyone in attendance. Everyone there was magical. It tore at Hermione's chest that her own parents weren't there to bear witness to her marriage, but before she could dwell on it, the Seer finalized their union. "So mote it be."

"So mote it be," everyone chorused, and the thread glowed in _life_ and _magic_ and _infiniteness_.

They were married. _One massive step at a time_.

* * *

The reception was warm and cold simultaneously. Everyone smiled and congratulated Draco and Hermione so much so that they could almost convince themselves that they had _wanted _this. That these people really were actually happy for them. Almost. Maybe somewhere deep and frozen buried inside of themselves they _had_ wanted this wedding…but not like this. Not with the stench of fear and war hanging over their heads.

"Having fun?" Draco whispered in that mocking way of his. As if this entire charade of a wedding was her fault.

"The time of my life," Hermione smiled widely with insincerity, her eyes speaking volumes. Draco responded in some typical fashion but she couldn't hear him because all the noise had faded. Her entire focus was on the two figures at the edge of the property.

Draco felt Hermione's breath hitch, and turned to see what was so important to take _his wife's_ attention away from him. Then he saw what she saw. _Harry goddamn Potter and Ronald motherfucking Weasley_.

His blood hitched and burned, and he wanted to roar. He wanted to punish her with kisses made of passion and hate for their presence. It didn't matter that the wonder duo were in disguise. It didn't matter that they probably wouldn't stay longer than a few minutes for fear of time running away from them and their polyjiuce potion wearing off before they could leave. It didn't matter because all that mattered was that Granger had lied.

She had lied, and _this_ was his proof. His anger was irrational. He had known they were coming. He had known she had lied. This wasn't news, and yet his anger had been burning for days since he saw the coded letter.

Hermione knew that something had shifted with Malfoy. It was like the air had changed, and so she turned to face him, a question in her eyes.

And in that locked gaze so much was said, and yet nothing resolved.

"I need another drink," Draco said gruffly. He didn't really, but he could definitely use another one.

"Yea, I'm…I'm just going to go freshen up," she lied for the sake of pretense. She lied for the sake of their marriage and their lives if the Dark Lord decided to search in Draco's mind. _Suspecting is never the same thing as knowing without a shadow of a doubt_.

He nodded and went to turn away, but something deep within him gave pause. He reached out to her, suddenly. Hermione didn't know what to expect, but this was _Malfoy_. She should always expect the unexpected.

His hand was soft and hard simultaneously, and they felt that electricity that always seemed to surround them when they touched. It spiked and crescendo'd like a symphony, as Draco let his lips devour her swiftly.

Hermione inhaled him into her, _her husband_. And she understood. His kiss was a brand, much like the dark mark. His kiss was a reminder that she was _his_, and he was _hers_.

It was a warning to those that looked on that no one touched what belonged to a Malfoy…not even the Dark Lord…especially not a Potter or a Weasley. It was the most dangerous kiss of their lives; Hermione felt like vomiting—like the first time she ever side-along apparated. She was being squeezed from the very center of her soul, and yet it, somehow, felt _good_ in a way that reminded her of the time she'd punched him and realized that she _wanted_ him.

But his lips were gone before she could accept the feeling, and he was walking away from her. He was walking away from her, and in effect, betraying Voldemort because he knew what she'd go do.

He knew, but _knowing and having overt proof_ weren't the same thing, so she turned towards Ron and Harry, and walked steadily towards them. She walked until her hands didn't tremble, and her head didn't wobble, and she reached them with the stride of the newly Malfoy she was.

"Hey guys," she smiled lightly. Her eyes shined in gratitude, knowing how hard being here must be for them…for Ron.

"Hey 'Mione," they both replied. There was an awkwardness present that spoke volumes.

Silence.

It haunted the moment, and she couldn't find it in her to push it away. What could they say? Congratulations for marrying their sworn enemy—a known Death Eater? Congratulations on having a sham of a wedding, and entering a loveless marriage? Congratulations on choosing the wrong side?

"Thanks for coming," she looked down. How could she face them when her heart felt like it would implode?

"We'll always be here for you, you know," Harry's emerald eyes held steady. He wanted her to understand that her loyalty to him all these years couldn't be wiped away so easily. "This doesn't change that. We just have to…_work around it_, now."

The tiny mischievous smile that graced his lips were like trumpets on the day of Judgement…it washed away everything else and bathed her in sheer grace.

If only Ron's sad eyes didn't pierce so deep, and hurt so much…if only everything wasn't about to change.

* * *

The celebration was still in full swing when Hermione and Draco were ushered away, so that they could enjoy their wedding night.

But all Hermione could think of was Draco's genuine, _we'll take it as slow as you need_, as she changed into her nightwear. Her hands shook in nervousness, but she kept the gentle look in his eyes at the forefront of her mind. She hummed, and did breathing techniques, and tried to clear her mind like when she practiced Occlumency, but none of it worked.

None of it worked, and all she was left with was a bathroom washed in candlelight, bright, and empty. It felt cold and lonely, and scarier than anything she'd had to face yet, and she wanted the simple pleasure of comfort in the form of hugs.

"Granger, you realize that if you stay in there any longer I'll have to assume you've died and will have to insist on barging in to find out," Draco's lazy drawl cut through the silence. Hermione took a long steadying breath for patience and courage, and walked out of the bathroom.

"You're scared," he said simply. It was typical Malfoy to cut to the heart of the problem with the least amount of tact or caring…and yet something in the statement implied he did care. It implied he cared _enough_.

"What do I do?" she asked so innocently that it threw him for a loop for a moment. She didn't want to play games with him—not tonight when she was so out of her depth.

He didn't want to rush her, and in his passion he didn't want to forget that she truly was an innocent in this regard. He didn't want to, but he wasn't quite sure _how_ _not to_. How not to when her pain would be like the heaviest aphrodisiac. But her eyes pierced him and tore at him until he couldn't stand to look at her.

"You take off your night-clothes, come into bed…and I'll do the rest," he said huskily as he slowly undressed himself. He didn't bother to dim the candles, or hide his body. Not tonight. Not ever. He would never hide from her ever again.

The knowledge freed him somehow—to know that he didn't need to hide from her because _they were in this together, now_—and he stalked toward her like a panther.

But he wasn't a panther. He was a dragon, born and bred and filled with the blood of a man who had been starved for years…and he had been, to see her, watch her, _want her_, and hate her for making him want her when he could never have her. But he could have her now.

"Malfoy," Hermione felt desire stir inside of her, but she couldn't get herself to move. His name was like a prayer and summons simultaneously.

He heard the desire laced with distress, and came upon her suddenly; his body grazed against her, their lips smashed greedily against each other, their moans at the slight contact filling the air. _Please. Please._ They pleaded silently, together. _More. More._

And there was more: more kisses, more teeth, more moans, more caresses, more sweat, more hate, more prayers, more need, more _truth_ as their bodies collided against the wall, pinned as though by the very Earth as they climbed higher and higher into sensations and reckless abandon.

Somewhere in between the stabbing pain, her tears, his crushing _need_, her confusion and wonder because _how could something hurt so good_, his violent passion, her fearless scratches, and "don't stop," and "never," something burned inside of each of them better than hate or that abstract thing called "love." It was heavy and all-consuming and _goddamn annoying and distracting from mindless bliss_. But it was persistent until it settled in the crevices in their ribcage, and they were just glad the other _existed_.

* * *

The moment of contentedness and fulfillment didn't last long before an owl came bursting through the open window with a letter for Draco. He was summoned to the Dark Lord and Hermione was left, waiting his return.

She tried to occupy her time, but it was difficult because she only kept picturing the most horrible scenarios of torture. _Maybe Harry and Ron had been discovered_, she thought and grieved for the pain she might be causing Draco. Maybe…maybe...maybe...so many maybe's that Hermione could drive herself crazy, until finally, _finally_, Draco walked through the bedroom door.

His eyes were torn and haunted. His stance was stiff and poised as if ready for an attack. _Something was very wrong_.

"What happened?" Hermione jumped out of bed and went to him, but his hand was outstretched before she made it to him, stopping her, keeping her at arms length.

He went to speak but he couldn't. There were no words to explain what happened. To say that he had killed a man was too simple. To say that the earth had tilted without his knowledge or warning felt too dramatic. There was nothing that he could _truly_ say to encompass all that had happened, and so he lifted his sleeve to show the Dark Mark, proud and stark against his forearm.

He exposed the Dark Mark as if that would explain everything…and in a lot of ways, it did.

Hermione gasped, and her hand covered her mouth in shock. She took a step away from him without thinking. The movement sparked something in Draco's chest and he removed all space between them, until they were nose to nose, chest to chest, heartbeat to stuttering heartbeat.

"Don't run from me," he said gruffly, like a demand and a plea simultaneously. His hands clenched into fists, rage building inside of chest and stomach like a volcano preparing for eruption. "Just…don't run."

Hermione heard what he didn't say, and forced herself to calm down. She knew this would happen eventually. She knew what he would one day become, but understanding abstractly is never the same as _knowing_, and _seeing_. But somewhere inside of herself, so deep that Hermione felt ashamed to admit it was there, she felt relief.

Deep inside the farthest reaches of her being she was relieved that he finally had the mark, that he had finally killed, because it proved that he hadn't been all words; _I'd fight and die, and kill for you, and that's the difference, Granger. I would kill for you, to protect and defend you as my wife, and that's one protection that your Weasley could never guarantee._

Now she knew that he really could. He'd already done it. Her irrational and shameful relief wouldn't let her look him in the eyes.

"It's okay, Granger," Draco cut through the silence. He didn't clarify _what_ was okay, and Hermione didn't ask. Too many things fit into that sentence. All equally as important. "We all do what we have to. That's just the way life works."

"So killing is just a part of life? I should just accept that!?" She lashed out hypocritically, but she couldn't help it—she had fought the _good_ and _light_ fight for too long to take death and killing with a nonchalant face.

But Draco blood boiled and he resented her righteous pedestal that she lectured on. He wanted to shake her, and crush her, and bury her beneath the weight of his fury.

"It's a part of _war_, and you already did accept it the moment you agreed to marry me. You knew that I would take the mark one day, you knew that I would kill. You knew that I would kill, and I wouldn't feel sorry over it."

"You don't feel sorry! Really?" Hermione tried to push him away in her anger, but he was like a mountain—immovable and stoic in his own regard. "I can see how tortured you look! I can _see _how haunted you are by tonight, so don't stand there and lie to me and say you're not sorry."

"But I'm not sorry for killing him, Granger," Draco lost himself in her eyes, and confessed _his_ ugly truth with the acrimony that burned inside of him constantly. Now that she had accepted herself, he knew that she could master Occlumency in time. He knew that his secrets would be safe, once she learned. It was enough for him. "I'm haunted by his pleas for mercy, and the Dark Lord's pride in me. You'd only believe it if you had seen it with your own eyes, but the Dark Lord was _proud of me_. He told me that the first kill is always the hardest, and though the guy's a goddamn egomaniac, I believe him. I believe that no other kill will ever be as hard as tonight's was. But that's not because I'm sorry. It's because I was thinking about all the shit that might change after killing him. How my soul would forever be tainted. The fact that he would _die_, cease to _exist_, was just a blip on my radar. _I'm that bloody self-absorbed_."

They were at an impasse; _it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair_, and Hermione knew that nothing would be resolved tonight. Not tonight, when their emotions were running too high and too strong off of all their disillusions. Disillusionment in themselves and each other.

Hermione knew that he would never ask her to let it go, too much pride holding him down. But she wouldn't ask him to come to bed either, too saddened by the Dark Mark tainting the same skin that she had kissed only hours ago.

She went and sat at the edge of what she had claimed as her side of the bed when he had left earlier, and watched him go about changing his clothes. She watched as he winced every time something as simple as his shirt or even his own skin brushed up against the Dark Mark. She realized how much pain he must be in, and how strong he must have been to endure it. Moody had explained once that the Dark Mark was the most painful of brands because it had to attach itself to the very core of the person.

"Did you cry? You know, when you got marked," Hermione asked half-spitefully and half-genuinely curious. That's how they worked: hot and cold, sometimes too hot, sometimes too cold, and sometimes so confused in their genuine apathy and passion towards each other that they were both at the same time.

"Yea," he turned his back towards her as he got into bed. His voice was low, but he wasn't ashamed. He had heard of greater men than him breaking down while getting the Mark.

He waved his wand and all of the lighted candles blew out; darkness cocooned them as the moon bathed them in its natural light. In the darkness Hermione's shame wasn't so bright, and words spewed forth like from a fountain. _Truth_.

"I'm sorry that I'm a hypocrite, that I judge you having known all along what you would need to do," she spoke to the moon and Malfoy and the darkness in her own heart. She whispered what had torn at her. "But, did it have to be on _our wedding day_?"

"It's _because_ it's our wedding day that the Dark Lord wanted me to get the Mark today," Draco huffed out a bitter dry laugh. "Don't you get it? He _knew_ that you'd be mad. He was banking on your goody two-shoes Gryffindor heart to hate me after tonight. This, all of this, was just a test. A test to see if I've grown up from that sniveling twat who could barely point my wand at Dumbledore, a test to see if your loyal heart was loyal to me at all, a test to see what we're both made of."

It was crazy, and unreasonable, yet it all made so much sense. Ever since she had heard of _You-Know-Who _she'd had this vague picture of pure evil, of a monster instead of a man. But the way Draco described him…it made the pit of her stomach swirl and clench uncomfortably. It made her acutely aware of the fact that Lord Voldemort had been born a man, and many on the Light Side had forgotten that.

"Did we pass?" she asked, unsure if she even wanted to know.

"I don't know," he answered harshly. "That's the trick with the Dark Lord, that you _never _know. Pass or fail, it all falls into the same bowl with these little tests. All that matters is that he's pleased. That he's _proud_ because when he is, there's _nothing else besides the glory of him_. Isn't that sick? Isn't that ridiculous? An entire army of people vying for one man, one _lord_, to be proud of them. But dammit, Granger, if he doesn't make you feel like you're a _king_ when he's proud."

She heard everything that he was saying, and everything that he left unsaid. What could she do? What could they do? They were at the mercy of a sociopath who was too charismatic and magnetic for anyone else's good.

"But you were born a king, right?" Hermione raised an eyebrow, mocking him.

"I was born a _dragon_," he reached out a hand and let his fingers travel over Hermione's shoulder and arm of their own accord. She didn't move away but didn't move towards him either. "I was _raised_ to be a King. I was taught from the second I could understand words that Malfoy's bow down to no man…but you've never met him, Granger. I mean really met him. He's cruel, and sadistic, and you can't help but _hate_ him for all the pain and fear he causes you, but….when he wants to…there's nothing like his approval. He _consumes everything._"

"What are we going to do?" Hermione whispered. Everything suddenly felt so helpless. How could they survive?

"What we have to, Granger," he tugged at her arm, and she went. _Pull, push. Push, pull_. He let his lips graze over her ear and neck. He let himself breathe her in. "We'll do what we have to."

"Malfoy," Hermione whispered.

Draco grunted his "what?" as he let his hands wander over her thighs and stomach. She was _his_, and he couldn't stop the overwhelming urge to remind her until they were both broken and spent. He didn't want to speak anymore. Not tonight. Not when so much had already been done and said.

"My name, it's _Malfoy_ now, not Granger."

Her words were simple, but they crumbled his will and restraint; her words made him covet her, and the feeling was so overpowering that by that simple statement they were one.

"Yea, you _are_ a Malfoy now," he responded as he nipped and kissed and licked everywhere he could reach. It was frantic and crushing in a way that he'd never expected. Her frantic fingers that clutched at him was _ruining_ him in the best way. "But you'll always be Granger to me."

It was the most beautiful thing he could have ever said to her on their wedding night…the only thing to make everything feel right again.

* * *

So, what do you guys think? Was it worth the wait? I was a little worried about the Draco/Hermione dynamic in this chapter. Did I do them justice? Love it? Hate it? Let me know and Review! **Reviews are love** :)


	6. To Twirl, Fumble, and Fall

Disclaimer – I own nothing.

A.N – Hey guys! So, I had a seriously love/hate relationship with this chapter as I wrote it, and revised it, but hopefully it will have been worth the wait. A massive THANK YOU to **olivieblake**for beta'ing this chapter and being all around amazing. Definitely go check out her stories, "Marked" and "Clean," if you haven't already.

To **olivieblake**, **mthoene**, **mega700201**, **daniiibabiii**, **beaflower114**, **Shellmar**, **Chester99**, **DragonxEyes**, **Fairygirl34**, **Amilasse**, **viola1701e**, **helenkelley2013**, **Athena Dragonseeker21**, and **marthapreston4**: Thank you all so much for the love and support. I value all reviews from the super long ones to the super short ones! I'm really happy that you guys are enjoying the story, and the dynamic between Draco and Hermione. Hopefully, this chapter won't disappoint. On that note,

**WARNING—SEXUAL EXPLICITNESS AHEAD**_**. **_Just a heads up for anyone who doesn't want to read that sort of thing. This story has officially been moved into the "M" rating.

To all who've favorite'd, followed, or read silently, I adore you and thank you for taking the time to read. Hope everyone enjoys!

_/I couldn't leave if I wanted to cause something keeps pulling me back to you_

_From the very first time we loved, from the very first time we touched_

_The stroke of your fingers, the scent of you lingers, _

_My mind running wild with thoughts of your smile_

_Oh, you gotta give me some, or you could give it all_

_But it's never enough/_

_-_Powerful, Major Lazor ft. Ellie Goulding

Chapter 6 – To Twirl, Fumble, and Fall

Hermione's hands were clammy and hot and cold and _gods, did she want to leave_. She didn't know how to play the dutiful wife; she didn't want to learn, either. But here she was, attending Blaise Zabini's wedding to Tilly Chambers—a sixth year Ravenclaw.

She could definitely see the appeal; Tilly was a beauty by any standard with her long and flowing mahogany hair, and dark blue eyes. She had a figure that was gentle and tempting; Hermione hated her. Hermione hated how Draco appreciated her figure, and her smile.

"You shouldn't scowl at a wedding," Draco admonished her. He looked at her with those grey eyes that she still hadn't become accustomed to after a week of marriage. Those eyes pierced and moved her. She thought she might explode if she didn't escape him soon.

Honeymoons weren't what she expected them to be. He loved her hard some nights, and other nights, he didn't make love to her at all. Oh, he always crashed into her like she was his beloved enemy, if there were such a thing, but…being the servant of the Dark Lord came between them often. Test upon test that neither knew if they were passing or failing.

"You shouldn't take a muggle-born to a Death Eater convention," Hermione replied acerbically.

"And here I thought this was the wedding of my best mate," Draco raised an aristocratic eyebrow. Hermione wanted to simply walk away, glare and never look back, but his eyes darkened, and she felt that familiar heat that grounded her like a moth to a flame.

Or a wife to a husband.

"Well, at least there are _some_ respectable people here," Hermione sighed. She'd take consolation where she could get it. She had yet to meet Voldemort, but she knew the time was approaching, and it was making her anxious. She dreamt in blood and heartbreak over it.

"What people?" Draco smiled sarcastically. Hermione couldn't help but point out people who vocally championed the Light—people like Gesepe Ganish, Carol Wentworth, and Brian Pembrook.

She pointed them out sweetly, with a raised eyebrow mocking him as if to say "_oh, you thought there were no good people left in the world, did you?" _

Draco replied silently, with a smile as sweet to combat her own, and his own raised eyebrow which clearly taunted her as if saying, "_oh, you thought there were people that couldn't be bought, huh?"_

Her smile faded and a heavy scowl took her place. The names Wentworth and Pembrook were some of the strongest in support of Harry and the Order. To know that those names were simply playing both sides, one in the public and the other behind closed doors so as to be on the right side of this war regardless of who wins disgusted her. It also made her want to growl in frustration.

Instead, Hermione turned towards the couple approaching and planted another fake smile upon her face. Her arm rested on Draco's with a false comfort that didn't fool him for a moment.

She'd have to warn Remus and the Order somehow.

Draco knew, just like he knew he'd have to warn his father that Ganish, as a possible resource, had been burned.

And Hermione knew that he'd have to tell the Death Eaters, too.

Neither of them blinked at the realization that they were just as hypocritical as the Pembrook and Wentworth families; everyone just wanted themselves and theirs to get out of this war alive.

_Truth. Even when it hurt._

* * *

Draco's arm was heavy at her waist as she twirled in his arms. It was nice and nerve-wracking because she wanted to be closer and as far as possible.

She hadn't said a word directly to him since their little revelation earlier. Blaise's wedding reception was still in full swing, and they both knew that they have to air this out or else it would be a _very_ long night.

Hermione, ever the bearer of reason, decided to break the silence.

"The Pembrook's are supposed to be good people." She didn't know what she meant to say with those words—only that it mattered. "They're supposed to be one of the good guys."

"_Maybe there are no good guys_."

It was supposed to be comforting. It was supposed to be _more_ than what it was, but Hermione could care less about anything except that there _should_ be good guys. This spark inside of her, so firm in the ways of right and wrong, good and evil, told her that there should be.

"I'm one of the good guys," she said, slightly smugly. She knew that things were never that simple, but she wished that they would be. Hermione wished upon the stars that she could say those words with more conviction then she felt.

Draco didn't bother to refute her claim. He stared at her, hard. His eyes penetrated her, and she wanted to cry.

"_I'm good_," she repeated, but the tears didn't stop forming in her eyes. "_I'm good_."

Draco pulled her in closer. He hated her for thinking that she was better than him, but he also pitied her. He pitied the fact that the idea of falling short, of _being human_, could break her so easily.

He wanted to comfort her, give her a second to regroup and _accept herself _(which is a process to be done over and over again), but they were in the middle of a party and Draco's pureblood ways wouldn't let him show too much emotion in public. Not now. Not when they were surrounded by supporters of the Dark Lord.

"Don't you dare fucking cry, Granger," Draco glared at her. It wasn't just an admonishment. It was a plea to be _strong_, stronger than she is right now.

"I'm not crying," she glared right back. "I'm worried that with your horrible dancing you'll step on my shoes."

It was a sorry excuse but it was enough. _Damn it, he wants her_, and yet he had never despised her so much. _I'm good_. Yea, she might be, but that didn't make him bad. That didn't make him _less than_, and _where the hell does she get off_?

His grip on her tightened uncomfortably, and it no longer mattered that they were in public. It didn't matter that Blaise was only a few couples away from approaching them. They can't let this fester. Not this. Not with who they are, and who they'll always be.

"The world isn't black and white, Granger," Draco tried to whisper, but he couldn't stop the way his fingers pressed into her painfully. _Yea, let her feel that pain_.

He wanted to crush her beneath the weight of all of his fears, but that wasn't who he's been for a while now. Not since Dumbledore fell from that tower. Not since his father handed him over to Bellatrix for _training._

"Don't even try that, Malfoy," Hermione shot back. They bounced off of each other's resentment and anger. They do the same thing when he's inside of her, too. It was strange, and yet this dance was a hell of a lot more comfortable than when they tried to play nice. "You and I both know that it's a piss poor excuse for not doing the _right_ thing."

"And what's right? Who decides that, huh? Spare me your moral high ground," he growled and went to release her, but Hermione's nails dug into his shoulder and hand. She'll never let go. It was too late for that. It was too late the moment his lips had claimed hers hungrily.

"There's a right and wrong, whether or not we like it," she whispered harshly.

Lights danced above their heads, and the humid air made their skin clammy. Hermione licked her lips. Draco groaned in reaction, remembering how moist and hot those lips were upon him. Making him shiver. Making him quiver in anticipation. Making him want her with abandon. Her eyes, ablaze with indignation, reminded him of everything and the nothing there was _before_ they had acknowledged their desire. Their need. Their desperate and distorted _want_.

"Is there anything _right_ about you and me?" he asked, just to prove a point and piss her off more. It was the only way they worked and the only aspect of them that he could truly handle. Blaise was one person away, and they needed to get _this_, all of it, under control. They needed to be united, because Blaise was his best friend, but he was also his biggest enemy in so many ways because of it.

Hermione didn't have an answer. She wasn't even sure if they were having the same conversation. But she wasn't willing to stay quiet and meek in front of him.

She was also past lying to herself. Not anymore. Not since their wedding day.

"Some things don't fit in the category of right or wrong."

"Because there's a _grey_."

"No," she shook her head, and let herself invade his space so much so that it was practically indecent. Their lips barely brushed against each other, and their noses bumped _so good_. She was heady with the feeling of having him so close, and not close enough. She _hates him so bad, too_. "There isn't a grey when it comes to this. We're just—we…relationships are complicated. All of them. there's no such thing as a _right_ relationship."

"I don't even know what we're arguing about," Draco sighed, and let himself give in. He gives in to the _heat_, and the _blood raging to feel her_. His forehead fell to her shoulder, and his lips pressed against her neck.

"I don't know either," Hermione whispered softly. It was the truth, and its claws dug into them fiercely. The truth is always ugly for them, and never easy. "But it matters, okay? It matters, Malfoy, that you don't believe in a right and wrong."

"Why?"

"Because it's who I am. It's…it might be _all_ I am."

Yea, he can see that. He can see that's how she sees herself, but he knows the girl who loves to see him bleed, and he knows that's not all she is.

He knows and _believes_ enough for the both of them. As Blaise approached them, Draco wished he hated her more. He wished he hadn't learned what it felt like to feel her succumb so fully to his fury and passion. To match him in opening scars.

He wished, but it was _wrong_. It was wrong because as he gazed into her chocolate eyes, he saw himself. He saw himself, the lights of the wedding, and all the wishes and hopes inside of them both.

He saw it all, and it danced a waltz of right and wrong—so right in its wrongness.

"We're up," he stepped back from her slightly as Blaise advanced.

"We're always up," she looked away, tired of the game that never seemed to end. The game of _living _right under the Dark Lord's reign. The threat of meeting Voldemort constantly looming over her.

"Is that defeat in your voice I hear, Granger?" Draco smirked infuriatingly. "And here I thought that Gryffindors were immune to such feelings."

He smirked, even though he should soothe her. His eyes sparkled with the wonders of the universe even though he knows he has yet to see the gods.

He feels _everything_ because there's something special and harrowing about causing Hermione Granger pain. It's practically addictive.

Almost.

None so much as the feel of her in his arms…and for that, he can only hate her more…as he relished the feeling, acceptance rolling through his veins.

He'll never tell her, though.

Frankly, her pain and passion were the only things that grounded him anymore.

* * *

Draco congratulated Blaise _at least_ three times before Hermione's glare worked his nerves enough that he gave in and apparated them out of the festivities.

Once in the comfort of their _so not comfortable_ hotel room, they both looked at each other awkwardly. They both knew that Draco needed to go report to his father and the Dark Lord. They both knew that Hermione was itching to go tell the Order what she'd found out.

But neither of them moved.

In this moment of immobility and silence, they were connected by the beating of their hearts.

"We start school in a few days," Draco turned around, walked towards the bar, and poured himself two fingers of brandy. "Are you ready for that?"

"It's _school_," Hermione responded with a sneer. Let him _doubt that the sun shined_, let him doubt her passion for him, but never doubt Hermione Granger's ability to be prepared for _school_.

"School with a new Headmaster," he walked towards the window, and overlooked the city, with its bright lights and brighter sounds—the sounds of _life_. "School with the Carrows teaching."

Hermione hadn't even considered a new Headmaster. It would always be Dumbledore's position for her. Hogwarts would always be _safe_, to her. But that wasn't really the case anymore. Not anymore. Not since Draco let Death Eaters into the school; a rush of _fire_ and _hate_ so miraculous spun through her.

"This is _your_ fault," she gritted her teeth. "This _is your fault_."

"Yea." He faced her like a warrior. He was burning inside, furious that it was like they were perpetually turning in circles. It was like he couldn't escape battles—battles in the Death Eater ranks, and battles at home, whatever home this may be. He resented it, _her_, dearly. "I _did_ do this. This _is _my fault, but what about you? Huh? Where were _you_? Playing mother to Saint Potter, instead of _being involved_—so you don't get to judge."

He was right. He knew he was. She knew it too. She knew it and it did nothing to quell her fire.

"I may not have been in the thick of it last year," Hermione stepped into his space. Let him see the hate in her eyes. Let him burn like she burns. "I may not have played any real part last year, but _you chose to do this_."

"I chose to protect my family and what's mine," he growled, dropping his glass carelessly, and moved to grasp her forearms so hard that they'd surely bruise. Gods, he was so furious, but it was better this way. It was better than that stale moment of awkward innocence. It was better than being connected in their futility to truly change who they are.

Accept, conquer, not change—that was all that was needed for Occlumency. She wished it wasn't. She wished that more was needed. If only so that they didn't drown in the hatred that always seemed to flame.

"_I'm yours, aren't I?"_ Hermione lifted her hands and dug them into the nape of his neck. _Please, please_. Here they go—passion mixed with animosity so easily for them.

"Fuck, yes," Draco breathed her in. He can't stop hurting her, and damn it if he really wanted to. She felt too good when he was hurting her. She was too righteous when he wasn't hurting her. "You're mine, Granger. You're mine."

"Then don't make me go back there," she said, and only once the words were out of her mouth, she realized that _this_ had been what was hurtling inside of her. That storm in her ribcage was fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of a Hogwarts that wasn't safe. "Don't make me go back there, Malfoy."

His lips crashed into hers, and claimed her astoundingly, wholly. Her own fingers gripped at him as her insides twisted and turned. _Please, please_.

But his hands tore at her soul as they moved over her back and up through her hair. She wanted him, and she hated herself for letting herself want him. Yes, she was past denying it, but she doubted she would ever get to the point that she was _okay_ with it.

That wasn't who they are. That wasn't who they'll probably ever be.

Draco pivoted and slammed her body against the floor-to-ceiling glass window. It didn't shatter, and frankly, she could have cared less.

If they would have fallen, she would have died with his lips on her neck, and his fingers diving into her, and _yes, yes, yes_.

There'd never been a better feeling than this. She was sure of it.

Her moans bounced off the walls, crashing into Draco _so_ deliciously. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

_Please, please, please, don't stop._

It's their circle, but Draco wasn't so easily distracted.

"You're stronger than that, Granger," he dove his fingers deeper, and deeper. He was a machine of lust, and calculations.

Had she ever hated before this moment? She doubted it, but _yes, yes, yes. More. Please. Don't stop._ It was too much, and not enough, and she was thrashing against him, and pulling him closer. Nails digging into every inch of exposed skin she could latch onto. Draco hissed in her ears, in pain and pleasure, and _god, yes_. "You're stronger than that."

"Don't—make me—go—" her words, stuttered, came out in gasps and pants, and she just can't deal with so many emotions at the same time.

Draco allowed himself a moment to revel in the power of causing her pleasure. He let himself feel everything that he'd lost to Voldemort. One moment Hermione was writhing beneath him, pinned to the window, and the next she was slapping him and ripping off his shirt, and _what the fuck?_

She slapped him again, desire and resentment coiling in her eyes. Fuck, he loved it. He loved how ferocious she was. And he remembered the first time she slapped him in Third Year; he had desired her then, too.

This was a battle of wills, stronger than they've ever played at. Because she didn't want to go to Hogwarts, and he'd never let her stay away. _They_ were stronger than that. If only she could see what he saw.

Yea, they were like lions and snakes, even as Draco magically removed both of their clothes. Even as he dove into the depths of her, they were like lions and snakes.

He slithered and hissed, while she scratched and roared.

_More. _

_Harder._

_Deeper._

_Don't stop._

_Never._

_Yes, yes, yes._

_Fuck, fuck, fuck. _

They were reaching for a moment in time that didn't exist yet. They were reaching for something indescribably, and yet, within it all, Hermione moaned, "say you're mine."

Yes, yes, yes. _Just like that, just like that._

"I'm yours," Draco whispered hoarsely. She said it because she was his. She knew she was his. And he was hers. He was hers, and he'll never belong to anyone else as long as she lives.

She wanted him to feel the chains around them, like she felt them. Because, oh, she felt them. She felt _acutely_.

They were frantic, pushing and shoving onto and into each other. _You like that_? _You like that? _

_Yes, yes, just like that. _

Amidst the passionate and fevered words that fell from parted lips, Draco groaned, "say you love me."

He didn't stop moving within her, and she didn't stop feeling their connectedness.

"I don't," she gasped. It was too much. It was too much. Yet, it was _just right,_ wasn't it? She'd wanted to claim him as hers, despite her disgust and abhorrence. Maybe this was how he claimed her, too.

"Say it anyway," he whispered gravelly.

_More, more, more_.

He never stopped his steady rhythm, and somehow, unbidden, he had latched onto a desperate part of her that wanted to love someone. That part of her had always been turned towards Harry, since he was so easy to love, but right now, in the throes of passion and _fuck, fuck, fuck, _and _deeper,_ and _harder_, Draco was easy to love too.

"I love you," she whispered, but it wasn't enough. Draco claimed her harder, and faster, _too much, too much. _

_Yes, yes, yes._ _Just like that, just like that_.

"I love you," she repeated again and again as though he were tearing the words out of her. Maybe he was. Maybe it was everything they both needed.

Her body began to twitch and Draco's began to shudder.

"I'm yours," he repeated, humbled in the oddest way. Maybe just the prospect of her love did that to him. The idea that one day she could mean it.

"I love you," she mewled as she felt his lips resting under her ear.

Perhaps, perhaps she would one day. Maybe she would love him like he didn't deserve and she didn't want to. _They_ _had everything before them, they had nothing before them. _

"You're going to Hogwarts because you're stronger than the memory of ghosts and the inspired fear of a few sadistic Death Eaters," he lifted his head enough to bore his steady gaze into hers.

Perhaps one day she'll love him like _that_, but not today.

She shoved him away, and went to the bathroom to cry her heart out. But as she stared at herself in the mirror, the tears wouldn't come. She stared at her mussed hair and swollen lips, and willed herself to cry. But no matter how hard she bid the tears to come, they wouldn't.

She realized with a heavy heart that Draco Malfoy made her stronger—stronger than she had ever been while innocently loving Harry, who was so easy to love.

Meanwhile, Draco, in his nakedness, picked up his forgotten brandy glass off the floor, and poured himself another drink. His paleness, covered in sweat, glistened in the moonlight; he looked ethereal. He let the shadows take him in their embrace, and smiled wickedly in disbelief and self-deprecation as he turned back towards the window and the city, because there had been a twinge of truth when she had cried out her love for him. There had been a twinge of truth behind her words, and he had completely surrendered to being hers.

He shook his head and swallowed a large gulp of the liquid courage.

_Truth, even when it was so damn weird_.

* * *

Sooo? What do you guys think? Love it? Hate it? Let me know and Review! *Reviews are love*


	7. The Blindness of Lady Justice

Disclaimer- I own nothing

A.N – Thanks so much for all the love guys. I have a bit of a love and hate relationship with this chapter, since I re-wrote the second half at least three times. It turned out a lot longer than I anticipated—eek! Finally, I give you the fruits of my insanity. Hopefully it's up to par.

Bright side: The semester is over so I can spend tons of time writing in June and July! I've outlined this story up to Chapter 20. It'll probably have 30-40 chapters appx. So yay!

A special thanks to **olivieblake**for beta'ing the Voldemort scene, and for being such an awesome person! The rest is unbeta'd and all mistakes belong to me.

To **olivieblake**, , **Guest(1)**, **Guest (2)**, **EStrunk**, **Guest (3)**, **DragonxEye**, **viola1701e**, **Chester99**, **lakelady8425**, ** 813**, **LadyRana**, **Nichole O**, **danielap**, and **sarahmicaela88**: Thank you guys so much for your kind words and encouragement. I'm soo happy that you all are enjoying this story as much as I'm enjoying writing it. If I could give each of you a hug, I would! Eeh, take a mental hug anyway! Haha. Hope you all enjoy!

To all who've favorite'd, followed, or read silently, I feel the love! :)

_/For all the ones I've ever loved, and all the paths I've crossed that led me to this place_

_I may never find my way back to you, but still I step into the flame_

_Go on and take the wheel, turn it back to the stars_

_And let the fates collide—if I choose to live_

_Life on the edge, so close until I touch_

_The other side—still breathing/_

-Still Breathing, Dig the Kid

Chapter 7 – The Blindness of Lady Justice

Hermione honestly thought that she had never felt more tense than she did in front of Snape, inside of Malfoy Manor, surrounded by darkness and shadows.

The chandelier sparkled like a thousand little diamonds in the sun, and the silence squeezed out all of the warmth in the room. The cool marble under her bare feet chilled her deeply.

Memories of the last hour proceeded to flit through her mind, quick and slow simultaneously.

"_Get your cloak on," Draco had rushed into their bedroom. They were set to go to Hogwarts tomorrow, so everything in the hotel suite was an organized mess. If it had been up to Draco, one of their personal house elves would have taken care of it in an a few moments, and that would have been that. _

"_Why?" _

"_Just do it!" He had thrown Hermione's cloak at her, and without another word apparated them out of there—not caring a whit that she had been shoeless and braless._

_Gravity. _

_Weightlessness._

_Heaviness._

"_Stay in this room until someone comes to get you," Draco had whispered. There had been a franticness to his eyes that belied his stiff and poised frame._

"_Why would you bring me here?" Hermione had whispered harshly, the accusation clear in her voice. _

"_Because you and me, Granger," he'd let his fingers trail her lips and cheek softly for a second. There hadn't been any softness in his gaze, though. Only a _presence _that astounded and grounded Hermione. "You and me are in this together." _

"Why do you think you're here Miss Granger?" Snape asked in that silky tone of his.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione corrected him with a slight sneer. She might be a Muggle-born, but in this house, a house that she would inherit one day, _she_ was the superior one. "And I would assume I'm here to see Voldemort."

_SLAP_!

The sound of Snape's hand smacking against Hermione's cheek ricocheted off the walls. Her head snapped to the side from the force of it. Yes, Snape had always been unpleasant, but he hadn't been extremely cruel. He hadn't been _this_, whatever this was.

His hooked nose looked down on her, and Hermione couldn't help herself. _This_ was the man that had killed Dumbledore. Everyone knew it. Everyone that mattered. Everyone that was on the _right_ side. The _good_ side. The bad side, too.

In these walls, walls that stood erect and proud, it didn't matter that Snape had killed Dumbledore on Dumbledore's own orders. It didn't matter that Snape was technically on the right side. Not here. Not when the darkness seemed to creep up her arms, raising goosebumps as it went.

His hair hung limply in that distracting fashion, and his outer robes were tossed aside, leaving him in a simple black dress shirt that was unbuttoned at the top, and equally dark pants. His Death Eater's mask hung loosely in his left hand.

The Mask for Revels, which spoke more than any words he could ever give her.

"You don't say his name," Snape said, as though nothing was amiss. He spoke as though he hadn't just slapped her.

Hermione's head spun at the realization that in here, in here he was a Death Eater. Just like Draco. Especially Draco who had so much more to lose. Parents. A wife.

She didn't question why she was so sure she factored in any equation for Draco; she didn't need to lie to herself. Not anymore. Not for a long time. Not since he'd propositioned her and forced her to confront their truth.

_I love you. _

_I'm yours._

"You may refer to him as the Dark Lord," Snape continued, as if he were in a Potions class giving a customary lecture. "You may call him My Lord when you see him. Nothing else. _Ever_."

His eyes bore into hers, and for a moment she could see the man he might have been—warm and protective.

Hermione realized that he might have been a Death Eater, but he was also a Phoenix of the Order, and this was his way of helping her. This, though simple, was the first step to survival in these halls.

But…her thoughts couldn't focus on how to survive. Her thoughts were a jumble of kisses and passion and _I love yous_ and _I'm yours_.

_Just want to go home, just want to go home_, Hermione's mind supplied the words like a prayer and a mantra. Over and over again, until she couldn't see anything except Draco's lips descending on hers and his liquid-cement eyes filling her essence.

"Focus, you stupid girl!" Snape invaded her space, and his presence, so much greater than hers, commanded her attention.

"I'm listening," Hermione lied with a brave face. "I'm here."

Snape went to speak, probably to say something especially scathing, but Draco strolled through the doors with Bellatrix, Fenrir Greyback, Lucius Malfoy, and a few others Hermione didn't know.

Draco stepped up to her, and smoothed his hand through her hair. A moment later, he repeated the action, but instead of running his hand through until the end, he tightened his hold on her hair at the roots and pulled.

Hermione's eyes flashed in anger, indignation, and a little bit of desire, too.

_Good_, he thought. He wanted her angry. He wanted her filled with a fire so strong that nothing that might happen tonight could crush her.

"Remember who you are," he said strongly. To others listening, it was a reminder of her place, despite her elevated and protected status as his wife. To her, well, she _knew_ it meant _something_. She was just short on specifics.

_Remember who you are._ She wanted to ask, but knew it would be unwise, and so she nodded tersely.

He let her go, and the door swung open again.

Voldemort glided into the grand ballroom, Pettigrew at his heals, other Death Eaters appearing behind him like a force of nature. Countless faces, both covered and unconcealed, all with that dreadful mask on their person walked into the ballroom, crowding the space. Hermione could almost let herself feel insignificant in the face of such greatness.

The man, if one could call him that, liked an entrance.

_Breathe. Breathe. _

But Hermione felt like the world was going too fast. _Why was she here? Why was she here? _

She was protected, she tried to console herself. Voldemort, regardless of how demented, evil, and _wrong_ he was, wouldn't risk breaking a cardinal rule like attacking the wife of one of his Death Eaters. He'd do a lot, but not that. At least not yet.

Not while Draco wasn't in disgrace.

"My loyal subjects," Voldemort raised his hands on either side like a king. His snake-like features were striking, and monstrous, yet beautiful in a sick way. "We are here to celebrate tonight, and to welcome the wife of one of our very own, Draco Malfoy."

People didn't start to murmur or applaud. No, this was much more prodigious than that. The air was heavy with almost everyone's giddiness. Malicious and insidious smiles lifted the lips of everyone in the room except for Hermione.

"Come Draco," Voldemort beckoned Draco, and finally, _finally_ she caught sight of the Dark Lord that was worshiped. Draco kneeled before him readily, head bowed, eyes lowered. He was a deposed king, kneeling to a usurper, and the fire only glowed brighter inside of Hermione.

That was _her_ husband. Yes, she might hate him. Yes, she might despise him more than not, but he was hers. He was hers, and no one, especially a man who wasn't really a man, deserved the right to have Draco kneeled before him.

No one had that right but _her_.

"M'Lord," Draco's words carried like lightning on the wind. "Allow me the pleasure to introduce to you my wife."

Voldemort beckoned his head, and though Hermione was planted in the middle of the crowd, Voldemort's eyes found hers easily. His red eyes glittered, and Hermione wanted to run, hide, disappear.

Snape clamped a hand on her arm, stopping her in her tracks though it only appeared as though he were _helping_ her along to the front.

"Come, Mrs. Malfoy," Voldemort said smoothly. No traces of insanity. Only calculation. Only coldness.

Hermione knew what she had to do. She knew it, but her feet wouldn't move. Her heartbeat wouldn't slow. Her gaze swept past Draco's form, unmoved from his position, blonde hair serving as a halo around his head. An angel among demons. She knew that if Draco, the boy raised to be a King and born a Dragon, _whatever the heck that meant_, could kneel, then so could she.

Hermione felt bile rise in her throat at the fact that she had thought Voldemort _beautiful_ in his monstrosity even for a second.

Her legs propelled her forward awkwardly, and just as stiltedly she let one knee crash onto the hard floor, then the other. Her chocolate eyes stared into Voldemort's and all she saw was death. All she saw was decay. All she saw was everything that had been during Grindelwald's reign, and could be again.

Voldemort stood, powerful, immune to the fear coursing throughout the room at the fact that Hermione hadn't lowered her gaze.

_Remember who you are_. Well, she was Hermione Granger, best friend of Harry Potter, defender of the Light. She was the girl who had stood against a group of Death Eaters when she was fifteen and lived to tell the tale.

Voldemort scowled slowly, in that way that demonstrated control and authority. His scowl deepened until there was an indent where his eyebrows should have been. His pale and translucent hand lifted to her chin, and Hermione gasped at the coolness of it.

"Such pride," Voldemort chided. "Such pride, indeed. But where will your pride take you, Mrs. Malfoy?"

Fear was a living thing inside of her, choking her words. She could only shake her head, whatever the motion meant. She wasn't in control. She wasn't. Fear had taken control of her body, already.

_Breathe. Breathe. Don't panic. _

"You are married to such a loyal follower of mine," Voldemort continued despite her silence. His voice rolled around her and inside of her, like he was latching onto her very soul. "_I _allowed that. I could have easily told him 'no.' I could have simply shaken my head like you just did, and you would still be Hermione _Granger_, Harry Potter's mudblood consort. But I _allowed_ it. And now you are _witch_. Am I not merciful? Am I not kind?"

Tears that Hermione hadn't been able to shed the other night came swiftly to her eyes. _Just want to go home, just want to go home_.

"Am I not great?" Voldemort asked her, and his touch didn't waiver. He didn't try to own her. He didn't try to _force_ her to submit. No. That wasn't what he was trying to do at all. "_Am I_ _not great_?"

Voldemort let his magic swirl around them. Hermione felt the hungry looks on her back, wanting to feel his magic so close to them, wanting to bathe in the darkness and power he exudes. It made her heady, and yet, she wanted to recoil.

The darkness in his magic was _wrong_. It was fragmented in a way it shouldn't have been.

"Am I not great?" Voldemort repeated as he snatched all of his magic back into himself. He snatched his magic away from her grasp much like an adult snatched candy away from a child.

And shamefully, disgustedly, Hermione _yearned_.

"Am I not great?" Voldemort's fingers tightened painfully on her chin, and his eyes blazed with barely contained fury—the kind that legends are made of.

_Remember who you are_. _Remember who you are. _She was Hermione Granger.

_Remember who you are. _She was Harry and Ron's best friend.

_Remember who you are_. She was a defender of the Light. Always.

_Remember who you are_. Voldemort's eyes burned her, and Draco subtly invaded her mind. The stars spinning above their heads on their wedding night, their passion losing control among blood-red silk sheets, Voldemort's manic glee as Fenrir tore a man limb by limb with his bare hands, Voldemort's lust filled gaze as houses upon houses burned to the ground, Draco's own lust, fueled as an extension of Voldemort's, diamonds glittering and falling caked in blood from Voldemort's hands as a person's body explodes from Voldemort's sheer will.

_Remember who you are_. Hermione found her voice.

"Yes, M'lord," Hermione whispered croakily and shakily. "You are great."

Voldemort smiled slowly, assured in his lordship over her.

"And am I not merciful? Allowing you to bind yourself to one of my most promising?"

"Yes, M'lord," Hermione answered as she lowered her gaze, which was branded with those images in her mind. "You are merciful."

"And am I not kind? You who were a _mudblood_, are _witch_, now. Am I not kind?" Voldemort's grip tightened and tightened as he spoke, a frenzied gleam in his eyes. Finally, as though he exploded, he yelled, "Am I not kind?!"

"Yes, M'lord." Hermione shook in fear and awe as a surge of magic _so powerful_ embraced everyone from Voldemort's explosion. Hermione could barely believe it, such raw power in such a monster. "You are kind."

_You are kind_.

"Yes. Yes, I am kind" Voldemort relaxed suddenly, like a cobra that had been poised to strike but had changed its mind. Suddenly, he let go of Hermione and raised a condescending and noble eyebrow at the crowd. "Perhaps too kind."

With that one sentence, Hermione could feel the shake of the ground as everyone dropped to their knees as well, wherever they stood.

Together, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, lovers and friends, sons and daughters exulted the Dark Lord.

_Remember who you are_.

"Rise my loyal followers," Voldemort bid everyone to stand, and he shed his grace, his _magic_, over them all as he did. And as he continued to speak, his bloodlust bled into that magic, and into everyone's being. "You are my most loyal. You _deserve_ to celebrate, so tonight we will make the rivers run red with blood. We will make symphonies out of the screams of the weak, and we will show the _power_ of our magic to our enemies!"

With his last word, Voldemort swept out of the room in a haze of black shadows, and most everyone followed, pulled by his magic and will.

_Yes, M'lord. You are kind._

Draco and Hermione didn't move for a moment, but Hermione guessed that the pull of the Mark wouldn't let him sit this one out. They stood, that great chandelier sparkling and shinning above their heads.

Hermione knew what Draco would have to do tonight. She knew that he'd kill and torture, and he would do it with her name upon his lips. She wanted to punch him and tell him to never touch her again.

Murderer. Torturer. _Disgusting, foul, loathsome cockroach!_

Draco, still, waited for her to shun him like she did the last time she had come face to face with the reality of his life as a Death Eater.

_I'm yours_.

Instead, Hermione stepped so close that her breasts grazed his front. She lifted her lips to his and kissed him with all the despair she felt in her body. Her traitorous body that had wanted more of Voldemort's magic. Her weak body that had given into her fear, and had been struck immobile in the face of evil.

Draco crushed her in his hold, as his lips slanted over hers with a wildness and roughness so consuming that both could barely breathe.

Hermione pushed him away slightly and gasped for breath like a woman drowning. Maybe she was. Maybe she was drowning in him.

_Remember who you are_.

"Whatever you do tonight," Hermione gripped at his arms firmly. He was there. He existed. This wasn't a dream. _They survived_. "Whatever _sins_ you might commit—they don't define you. Whoever you kill tonight doesn't define you."

Draco felt like a tornado had formed in his ribcage at her words. Perhaps she meant it, or perhaps she didn't. It didn't matter either way, because she said it. She said it, and even if she didn't mean it today, she might mean it tomorrow. _Hope_.

Yea, it was a hope that poisoned and hurt like a thousand knives, but it was still hope. At least, some form of it.

_Whoever you kill tonight doesn't define you_.

But Draco Malfoy had lost the ability to believe in hope a long time ago. Maybe he'd accept it for what it was one day. Maybe one day, but not today.

Instead, Draco kissed Hermione swiftly, like water colors on a canvas, and said, "I'll see you back at home."

He disappeared in a blur of smoke, shadows, and darkness like the rest of the Death Eaters.

_I'll see you back at home_. Home: a hotel suite that they had somehow, between fits of anger and passion, made theirs.

_Remember who you are_.

A scuffle against the marbled floor alerted Hermione to someone's presence and she turned around, her black cloak billowing around her frame.

Snape stood there, regal and imposing as always.

They stared at each other, scrutinizing, observing, _searching_ for holes in the other's mask to pick at.

"Well done, Miss Granger," Snape nodded once after a moment. "Well done."

"Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione corrected automatically but Snape was already gone into the darkness as well.

_Remember who you are_.

_Remember who you are._

She was Hermione Malfoy, wife to Draco Malfoy, a dragon born and a king bred, and she was _fierce. _

"Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione corrected to no one in the dark, before she too left the grandiose ballroom behind to await her husband at home, whatever hour he might arrive.

_Her husband_.

Because they _were_ in this together, now.

* * *

By the time Draco had returned to their hotel suite, Hermione had fallen into a deep sleep brought on by exhaustion and frayed nerves.

The first stray lights of dawn had been streaking across the sky, and he could have sworn he had fallen asleep to the smell of blood in the air.

Hermione awoke with the light streaming into the bedroom, chasing all the shadows away, and Draco's hand on her breast. It wasn't romantic, or sexual. But there was something so very possessive about it that forced her to be still.

For the first time since they had bound themselves to each other, Hermione actually felt married_. _She felt like a wife.

She turned her head to face him, and, in this morning light, Hermione could see a thousand mornings like this. She could see their future untarnished by war or fear.

Except there was a speck of blood on his neck that didn't belong to him.

The more she stared at him, the more she realized he was covered in blood, here and there.

She wanted to scream in horror, but she couldn't look away. She couldn't look away. This was her husband.

_I love you_.

_I'm yours._

He deserved better, didn't he? He deserved _more_.

Even if all she could think was, _whose blood is that? Is it a child's blood?_

When he had arrived last night, he hadn't bothered to clean up. He had taken off his cloak and mask, and had thrown himself onto the bed.

He had craved being near Hermione, if only to remember her words. _Whoever you kill tonight doesn't define you_.

He had wanted to believe it desperately. He wanted to believe it still, as he opened his eyes, and beheld the world in the dark pools of Hermione's gaze.

They didn't say a word to each other.

They didn't need to.

_Remember who you are_.

_Whoever you kill tonight doesn't define you_.

It was enough. It was enough, so they both rolled out of bed and silently prepared themselves for one of the hardest days of their lives: going back to Hogwarts.

Last night weighed on Draco, forcing him to stand erect or else collapse under the burden of it as he dressed and combed his hair to perfection. Hermione had to continuously fight the imagined screams of the tortured from her head as she tied her shoes, her contempt for him and their situation only growing with every passing moment as the silence prevailed.

But silence always has a way of saying so much, and there was so much to be said between them. This silence followed them as they left the hotel suite, and journeyed through the city in a black limousine cab. This silence stretched and oppressed them as they reached the 9 and ¾ platform, the people buzzing around them, the colors bright and breathtaking with youthful jubilance—an innocence so pure that Hermione and Draco felt as though they could taint it simply with their presence.

Silence caressed and choked the space between them as they both entered the train, loaded their trunk into a compartment, and stared at each other, conscious of the fact that Hermione wanted to leave to find her friends. Or perhaps simply to escape the sharpness of his eyes which were so stifling at times.

"You're not chained to me," Draco shrugged, though his taut stance and tense shoulders spoke volumes.

"Aren't I?"

It was an automatic rebuttal—the words had simply flown from her mouth before she could think to stop them.

She bit her lips in consternation.

_You're not chained to me_.

_Aren't I?_

The words were about so much more than her going to another compartment on the train. It was about how trapped she felt in her own life. How trapped _he_ made her feel.

"Don't go there, Granger."

"Where? To the truth?" All she could see as she looked upon his fair skin, and shiny shoes was all the blood that had marred his skin this morning. All she could see was the haunted look in his gray eyes. So haunted, so trapped—trapped like she was.

But the more she thought about how effected he was by whatever had transpired last night, the more her anger burned. _He doesn't get to feel bad_, she thought. _He chose the wrong side_.

It had been his choice. It had always been his choice.

Someone opened the compartment door. Hermione didn't recognize the person but it didn't matter because Draco snapped a quick and brutal, "get out," before the door slid shut again.

"You think you've got some kind of monopoly on pain?" Draco drawled in that cutting fashion of his which always left her feeling insignificant and full of impotent rage. "You think you're the only one who feels helpless, out of choices? Get over yourself. I didn't chase you to the alter at wand-point, and this little pity party you insist on continuing to throw yourself is getting old fast."

It was a dismissal, but Hermione's rage was too full and overflowing to be stopped. She wasn't insignificant. She wasn't worthless. Not here. Not now. Not to him. Never to him.

If he wanted to hurt her, well, she could hurt him too.

"Oh, poor little Malfoy," Hermione snarled. "Daddy didn't love you enough? Mommy had no backbone to defend you? What? What was it? Because honestly, I'm done guessing what your problem is. _You chose this_. No one forced you, not last year, and not last night."

"How quick the tables turn," Draco sneered right back. "Last night, high off seeing the Dark Lord you were compassionate and forgiving. What happened, Granger? Woke up and realized the reality of what you sent me out there to do?"

They were in rare form today, and it was a strange comfort to be able to hurt each other. Because Hermione _didn't_ have a monopoly on pain and _should_ get over herself, and Draco _did_ feel at times that his father didn't love him enough (not enough to go against the Dark Lord at least) and his mother _never_ defended him—not that he could see anyhow.

"Don't you _dare_ lay that on me!" Hermione yelled, her hand snapping up as if preparing to strike him. Her eyes burned like fiendfyre and Draco felt a heat spread throughout his body in response. _Fuck_, he wanted her—to enslave her under his will and punish her with the threat of all the things he feels for her in secret.

"Yea, Granger," Draco pushed her against the compartment door. He didn't try to contain her. No, she wouldn't be _tamed_ or _managed_ right not. Not with all the blood he spilt last night. He wasn't that blind. "Yea, that was _all for you_. How does it feel? Huh? How does it feel to know that people were slaughtered last night in _your_ name?"

A look of revulsion and disgust settled on Hermione's delicate features, but Draco wasn't ashamed. Oh, he hated himself for what he'd done last night—the disgusting and vile things he'd done that he'd never forget. That he'd never be able to wash away. But he wasn't ashamed. Never that. Because he had killed, burned, and bled in Hermione's name.

To survive. For _them_ to survive. He'd do it again, too.

It had felt like he had been binding himself to her all over again. It felt the same right now as they stood, chest to chest, nose to nose, forehead to forehead, ugly truth mixing with barbed words, hate at themselves and each other masking the desire that's always just under the surface, swaying with the train on its way through the grass green hills and bright blue cloudless sky…to Hogwarts. The home of their hearts.

"I can't be the reason you kill," Hermione whispered. She wanted to vomit as nausea and vertigo assaulted her. "I can't—I just _can't_."

"I know, I know," he shushed her. Draco let her grief soothe and feed something feral inside of him simultaneously. "_I know_."

The train jostled roughly suddenly, and they were hurled from the door to the floor. Draco landed hard, and Hermione landed even harder on top of him. Her tousled locks were like ropes made of curly brown strands connecting them.

Draco's arms had wrapped around Hermione during the fall, an instinct to protect her. But now that they were on the floor, he couldn't let her go. He couldn't let her go, and he resented her for it. _So bad_.

"Don't let me be the reason you kill," Hermione whispered brokenly. She felt his fingers tighten painfully around her, but that was okay, too. It was solid in this ever changing and shifting world. "I don't deserve that. I'm not _worth_ that."

"You're right," Draco breathed her in. His eyes were unsteady with bitterness. His arms shook from the force of containing so much, _all the fucking time_. "You're _not_ worth it. But—_damn you_—I can't stop. I can't. I burned down a house, and all I saw were your eyes, those self-righteous eyes of yours staring back at me. I sliced a man in _half_, and I remembered what you felt like, how good you fucking taste. It's like you've _ruined_ me, Granger. You've ruined me, and there's no going back. There's no going back, so _fucking deal with it._ Because last night might've been the first time that I killed in your name, but it won't be the last."

_You're not chained to me._

_Aren't I?_

He had lied. They _were_ chained. Equivocally. Forever.

Hermione could only look away in shame…because when she stopped picturing all the blood on Draco, she didn't mind the idea of being chained to him so much.

She was a traitor to her own soul, the part of her soul that was Harry Potter's best friend. It was too much to bear, and the walls felt like they were closing in on her, chasing her to the brink of nightmares and despair.

It would always be too much between Hermione and Draco. She understood that. So did he. They understood it deep in their bones, like a disease destroying them from the inside…or making them stronger through the struggle.

"I don't want to be in a war with you, Granger" Draco sighed; his voice was husky, compelled into smoothness by her heart beating against his chest. This truth was a hard one to accept, because neither were sure that they knew how to _not_ fight. Somewhere in the mix of growing up, they'd long ago fallen in love with the struggle, and had made it a part of themselves. "I don't want our marriage to be a battlefield."

"Then _stop_ fighting me."

"What's the alternative? Let you mold me into Potter 2.0? Because that's not me, Granger. That'll never be me."

"I never asked you to be like Harry!"

"You didn't have to." Draco stared at the ceiling above them instead of her eyes. It was easier this way. He stared at the ceiling, waiting for an enlightenment that might never come. Because he didn't want to care so fucking much…but he did. He _cared _(in whatever twisted way that his mangled and torn soul could), and _wanted_, and _despised_ Hermione so fully that sometimes he couldn't find the will to breathe, let alone bow to the Dark Lord. "I'm not some virtuous saint, here to work the war from the inside. That's not who I am. But I see it in your eyes. I saw it last night, too. That's _exactly_ what you want. You want me to wake up one morning and declare myself a puppet for the Order. But I'll _never_ be a puppet again."

"Then who are you?" Hermione gripped at the lapels of his shirt so hard that her knuckles turned white. Her hair was just as wild as her passion and hatred. It was hard for Draco to decipher which emotion ruled her now. Frankly, it was hard for Hermione to decipher which as well. "Tell me, Malfoy! Who are you?"

"I'm a husband," he whispered thickly. He closed his eyes as he let the memory of waking up with his hand on her breast, her eyes on him, assault him. They were married now, truly. In every sense of the word, down to the very core of themselves. He had felt it this morning. In the _normalcy_ of it all. "I'm a husband and a dragon."

"What does that mean?" Hermione gazed upon him, lost in the moment like a person being whipped around in the middle of a tsunami. Maybe Draco was the tsunami. Or perhaps she was.

He didn't answer, and Hermione wasn't willing to crumble under the weight of his silence.

Instead, she stood on wobbly knees, shaking uncontrollably on the inside, and left the compartment without another word.

* * *

"So, how's life at Malfoy Manor?" Ginny asked awkwardly. She meant well, but tact wasn't exactly any Weasley's forte.

When Hermione had left Draco on the floor of his compartment, she had gone in search of her friends. It hadn't occurred to her that things would be awkward. It hadn't crossed her mind at all that she hadn't seen Ron and Harry since her wedding.

The day she had tied herself to their sworn enemy. Once her enemy, too. Heck, maybe he still was her enemy. The battle lines blurred more each day, with each kiss and fight.

"We haven't stayed at Malfoy Manor, actually," Hermione tried to answer nonchalantly. She was sitting next to Ron, who's barely looked at her since she walked in. The moving train made their shoulders and thighs bump into each other. It was uncomfortable on a whole new level for them. "It's sort of the Dark Lord's home base right now, so…"

"Dark Lord?" Harry raised an eyebrow. He didn't mean to say it in such a tone, but he couldn't help it either.

"_Voldemort_," Hermione corrected quickly. "Sorry, Professor Snape's negative reinforcement kind of does the trick. Can't go around calling Voldemort by his name to his face. Needed to break the habit, so Professor Snape took it upon himself to make sure I remembered."

"What did he do?" Ron finally looked at her. There was a fire in his eyes raging in her defense. A warmth that Hermione had missed swept through her at her friend. Because despite it all, they were still friends. They'd always be friends.

It was nice to remember that. Even if things were spectacularly strange between them currently.

"Nothing worth talking about," she smiled lightly at him.

"So where are you guys staying?" Ginny inquired.

"Probably in a mansion somewhere by the coast," Ron said bitterly. The warmth that had spread swiftly cooled, and all Hermione was left with was a chill in her bones.

"Actually," Hermione pursed her lips. She knew he didn't mean to attack her, but she still felt attacked. She felt alone in this compartment filled with the people closest to her. "We've been staying at a muggle hotel."

"Guess you're a good influence on him," Harry joked but it fell flat.

None of them were in a joking mood—not Ron who still felt like his chest was caving in on itself whenever he looked at Hermione—because _damn it_, he still didn't understand why not him—, not Ginny who had no idea how to navigate such a complicated situation, and not Hermione who felt like she was in a perpetual tug of war.

The silence settled over them, and Harry couldn't stand it. This wasn't them. This wasn't who they were ever allowed to be. Not ever.

"Gin," Harry turned to Ginny with soft eyes. "Can you give us the room?"

Ginny smiled tenderly at him, her fiancé, and nodded.

As she walked out of the room, Harry stared after her with a strange pang in his stomach. He knew that deep down she wasn't the one he wanted, but he tried anyway. He had promised to marry her so as to protect her from marrying someone else, someone she didn't care about, someone who might be under Voldemort's thumb. The papers had been signed and sealed, simply awaiting the wedding date.

"She loves you," Hermione pointed out. She was out of superfluous words. She wanted to talk about something that mattered.

"She's loved him since her First Year," Ron snorted. "Bloody hell, maybe even before that."

"Must be nice," Hermione shrugged and looked out the window. "To be loved like that. Remember how she jumped to the chance to help you at the end of Fifth Year? Went head first into danger without a second thought for herself."

"It does feel good," Harry admitted, his green eyes piercing her like bolts of lightning. "It feels _really_ good. I just wish—I wish I could love her the way she deserves."

Something about the phrasing didn't sit right with Hermione. She understood the sentiment, but the word choice, _deserves_, didn't settle under her skin right.

_You _deserve_ to celebrate, so tonight we will make the rivers run red with blood._

_Don't let me be the reason you kill. I don't deserve that_.

Hermione tried to shake the words from her memory. She didn't want Draco to infuse his presence into this conversation without even being in the room. Hermione didn't want to make her world all about him. She didn't want all roads to lead back to Draco, even if it felt like they already did somehow.

"It's never about what anyone deserves," Ron spoke up in that randomly insightful way that he has a habit of doing. It always surprised Hermione and Harry when he did, and reminded them that Ron was the heart of the Trio. Whereas Hermione was the brains and logic, and Harry was the strength and hope, Ron was the heart that reminded them to believe in each other. "Love isn't arithmetic. We love who we love. All anyone can do is try to be worthy of being loved, I guess."

Harry sighed and nodded his understanding. Ron was trying to tell him that he understood and wouldn't hold it against him. They were brothers, and even this wouldn't break them. Harry not loving Ron's sister enough wouldn't be the wedge that separated them.

As long as he treated her right and fair. As long as he tried to live up to being loved by her. Ron only wished he could have been given the same chance with Hermione.

But it was too late for those thoughts now. Too late to do anything but try to not picture how Malfoy probably touched her at night.

"Is Malfoy treating you alright?" Ron turned to Hermione. His sky blue eyes were steady as he gazed into her, searching for any lies she might tell.

But how could she tell them that Draco was a complicated mess and she was right there with him? How could she tell them that her relationship had become a ball of _I love you_, _I'm yours_, _remember who you are_, _whoever you kill doesn't define you_, and _you're not chained to me_.

Statements that meant everything and nothing.

How could she ever define that? In what universe could she ever explain that Draco expelled his demons by making love to her—_hard, rough_. By what grace could she ever say that when Draco purged himself in her, she felt like she could do anything in the world.

"You know that if he's mistreating you, if you were _wrong_, it's okay," Harry leaned forward and grasped her hand in his warm ones. "You can tell us."

If he were treating her as awfully as they thought, Hermione _could_ tell them. She could run screaming to the hills—Harry and Ron would protect her because that was what they all did; they protected each other. _Together_.

Draco was killing in her name, and trekking blood into their make-shift home, possibly scarring her mentally, but he wasn't treating her the way they imagined—beating her in the middle of the night or anything else horrific.

"He's not a monster, guys," Hermione chided softly. It was the only defense because she couldn't tell them the truth. The truth that tore at her in random moments—that she liked it when he hurt her, because she liked to hurt him too. "He's an enormous prat, and needs some serious therapy, but he's not a monster."

_Don't think about the blood. Don't think about the blood_. Her brain tried to shut out the image of waking up in a bed filled with dried blood—so dark and red—that hadn't belonged to her or Draco.

"Voldemort was pretty happy last night," Harry's gaze didn't waiver and Hermione couldn't pull away. He was the light. Surely Harry would guide her out of the darkness. Of course Harry could save her from herself. He was the light. He was her best friend.

"What did you see?" she muttered.

"Not much," he shrugged, though there was an anxiety that he couldn't shake and couldn't hide. "Just bits and pieces here and there. Mostly it was just his feelings that came through. Kept me up most of the night, actually."

They were waiting for her to fill in the blanks. The parts they couldn't see without her help. They were waiting, but all Hermione said was, "Well, you can bet if Voldemort was so happy that it meant nothing good for anyone."

"What happened last night, Hermione?" Harry asked outright finally. It was so straightforward, so open and trusting of a question, because he trusted that she'd tell him the truth, that Hermione wouldn't lie.

He was the light.

"I met Voldemort," Hermione began. Ron, feeling the shift in the conversation, automatically put his arms around her in comfort. His heart beat against her arm, and it was secure. She felt safe and surrounded by them. Never mind that he was memorizing how it felt to hold her, even just like this. Never mind that Hermione knew it, too. "He's a bit unhinged, a bit mad, but there was something _there_, y'know? Something…I don't know. Doesn't matter, either. There was a Revel last night."

"You didn't have to attend did you?" Ron smothered a horrified gasp.

"No," Hermione shook her head. "I just went to meet him, bow down to him, but that was it. It was all he wanted from me."

"How was it?" Harry couldn't help but ask. It was an insight that he'd never been able to have—how others outside of Voldemort's followers besides himself saw him.

"Scary," she confessed. "Really scary. Like, Molly Weasley on a rampage scary."

They all looked at each other for a moment, marinating on the image in their heads, and then they all grinned in quiet mirth; they had all seen Mrs. Weasley on the warpath at least once or twice.

In their upturned lips, in the light that sparked in their eyes, Hermione remembered exactly who she was.

In their relaxed state as they sat comfortably crossed legged in the compartment and began playing exploding snap, trying to get back to that ease that was so intrinsic to their friendship, Hermione wondered why she couldn't be Mrs. Malfoy _and_ who she'd always been.

She wondered and wondered, even as the majestic Hogwarts could be seen glowing bright in the distance.

* * *

Darkness was a thing made of shadows and silence, Hermione decided as she entered Draco's dorm room. It_ must_ be a living entity, perhaps even a dark creature, she determined, as she gazed at the decadent furniture being kissed by darkness in the private, and ridiculously large dorm room.

Slytherins, once they hit Sixth Year, got their own dorm rooms, and so Snape decided that anyone married to a Slytherin would simply move into said Slytherin's dorm room. Snape, with his sneering mouth and lofty chin, stood tonight where Dumbledore once stood during the feast.

He had announced with zero fanfare that all married Slytherins were to live with their spouse—apparently Draco and Blaise were the only two to actually take the plunge. Many people were engaged, but few had actually married; most were probably waiting for the law to blow over. Others were just scared of binding themselves to someone so young. The Elite, of course, simply didn't want to ruin their impeccable pure-blooded lineage.

But none of this had seemed to phase Snape or McGonagall.

McGonagall had sat to his right glaring daggers at the Carrows who had sat at the other end of the table, a mad glee in their eyes. Alecto Carrow was set to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, which Hermione had the sinking suspicion would become just the Dark Arts soon.

Hermione had received a few curious gazes—her wedding had been in all of the magical newspapers, so the stares were expected. What she hadn't anticipated were the questions about the Carrows—why did Snape hire them? Are they really Death Eaters?

Apparently being Mrs. Malfoy made Hermione privy to all sorts of information that she'd otherwise never be subject to, or at least everyone thought.

Frankly, by the time the meal had been over she'd been more than grateful to run off to her bed…only she couldn't go to her bed. Draco had clearly had the same thought because he had appeared at her side like an angel of death, his dark robes contrasting so heavily against his pale skin and head that Hermione thought he was dressed in his Death Eater garb for a moment.

"_Are you ready?" Draco had asked, not sparing a glance for Ron or Harry. _

_It had been a simple question, but Hermione could hear the undercurrent washing over her. Was she ready to live among Slytherins—the answer had been a definite "no," but she wouldn't say that and risk looking weak. Instead, she had nodded her acquiescence, and Draco had swept her away from the Gryffindor table. Ron and Harry's worried stare following her. _

_Blaise had walked with them, next to Draco, while Tilly had walked next to Hermione. Whereas the girl had seemed demure before, like a flower in bloom, shinning, then,_ not_ in the company of the pureblood elite, she had opened up; the girl was practically a chatter box! _

"_Did you hear that Luna Lovegood and Theo Nott are in talks for an engagement. Apparently no one's quite sure if the girl's a pureblood or not."_

"_I wasn't aware, no." _

"_Oh yes," Tilly had hummed agreeably, and Hermione's eyes had begun to water from the exertion to not roll them. She felt as though she were having a conversation with Pavarti or Lavender. Merlin, help her. "That can happen sometimes—you know how some families keep to themselves. Well, the Lovegoods _really_ keep to themselves—a bit strange and all that—and honestly Brits act like we're the only wizards in the world sometimes. Anyhow, no one ever bothered to ask before, and now that the woman's dead—Luna's mother, that is—well, now it's just bad form to ask. Because her blood status kind of fell through the cracks, now that the Marriage Law's in place, she can actually marry a Pureblood, Half-blood or Muggle-born since she can just decide whether or not to be Pureblood—it's not like anyone will refute her."_

"_Really?"_

"_Of course!" Tilly linked their arms as though they were the best of friends sharing a bit of good natured gossip. Hermione couldn't help but like the girl, but then she remembered the way Draco's gaze had lingered, and an acrimonious taste swarmed in her mouth. It didn't matter that she hated him, he was _hers_. "Honestly, the same thing happened to the Crabbe's a few generations back, I think. As long as no one talks about it, well, they're considered pureblood. Not pure enough to marry into some families, but still. Even though I guess that doesn't really matter anymore, thanks to the Marriage Law." _

"_Hmm," Hermione hummed amicably, though she had thought the entire conversation a tad hypocritical. _

_The girl _was_ a half-blood, after all. Though in Tilly's defense, her father, like most Muggle-borns, had been swept up in the world of magic and had left the Muggle world behind. Tilly truly had been born and bred among wizards, despite her heritage, so Hermione couldn't blame her...much. _

"_Also, I have it on very good authority that the only reason Nott's really considering it is because Lovegood's so close to Potter. Well, you can just imagine—if the Dark Lord wins, then he's _obviously_ safe, and if Potter wins, then he'll still be safe. Lovegood wouldn't let her husband go to jail! Can you even imagine?!" _

"_Can't say that I can, no," Hermione had raised an eyebrow in the same derisive way she'd seen Draco do a thousand times. Suppose she really was a Malfoy now. _

_Although even more ironic was that Tilly had no qualms about discussing such things with Hermione, who for all intents and purposes, was still Harry Potter's best friend and firmly on the Light Side. Sadly, Hermione understood why Tilly hadn't spared Hermione's friendships a second thought—allegiances were shifting all around them. As Draco had so cruelly pointed out to her at Blaise's wedding, people were playing both sides of this war, and if Tilly's nonchalant reaction had been any indication, it wasn't exactly a secret. _

_Who was Hermione to judge? Hadn't she been the one to bow before Voldemort last night? She could have made a stand and taken death over dishonor of her morals, but she had been afraid. She hadn't wanted to die. None of them did. _

_It had been a sobering realization that bit at the heels of Hermione's feet like rabid dogs. _

_Nonetheless, Tilly had gone on and on about this and that, so much so that Hermione couldn't help but perk her ear up for Draco's conversation that had been going on only a few paces in front of her. _

"_How's it feel being a married man?" Blaise had ribbed good-naturedly. _

_Clearly being married had been treating him well. His dark skin glowed magnificently, showing no signs of fatigue, and his eyes glittered like black diamonds. He was an Adonis made of the darkest and finest marble; Hermione could see why so many women fawned over him. _

"_Fucking exhausting," Draco had growled, and Hermione had glared into his back in response. _

"_Ouch," Blaise had flinched exaggeratedly. "Guess the Dark Lord kind of put a damper on things, huh?"_

"_More like the bride is a sanctimonious hypocrite," Draco had explained. But Hermione had already had enough—he didn't get to assassinate her character just because he was still upset over their last argument. _

"_More like the groom is an insensitive prat," Hermione interjected in their conversation. _

_Tilly's eyes widened comically at Hermione's audacity, and a hush fell upon the Slytherins that were walking around them. But Hermione couldn't focus on that. Not when Draco's eyes were like steel and a wrath so powerful shown in his eyes as he turned slowly. _

"_I _dare_ you, Granger," Draco's hand clamped down on her forearm like a force of nature in the guise of guiding her next to him like a gentleman. His words were said lowly through clenched teeth so only she could hear, his face a mask of nonchalance and indifference._ "Please, please_ fucking embarrass me so you can see the kind of husband I can be." _

_The threat had been clear, and Hermione hadn't wanted to test his patience—she hadn't been sure if the threat had been empty or not, but she hadn't wanted to find out. _

But now, in the darkness of his room, in the space that would occupy them both, Hermione was willing to test all those waters. She was willing to fight and make him bleed because she _wasn't_ a _mudblood_ and she wouldn't let herself be treated like one, even by him. Especially by him.

"Let it go, Granger," Draco waltzed into the room like he walked into every room—like he paid for its very existence.

"Let _what_ go?" Hermione folded her arms and smiled coldly. She was the picture of a dutiful wife, waiting poised by the bed for her lord and master husband in a silk light blue negligee that stopped mid-thigh. But she had no master. Her husband would never be her lord, and she would _never_ submit. "Let the fact that you manhandled me in front of all of Slytherin earlier go? Let go of the fact that the Carrows will be teaching DADA tomorrow? Let go of our sham of a marriage? Let _what_ go?"

"Fuck, Granger!" Draco whirled on her with an agitated gleam in his eyes, his hands running roughly through is hair. He was so close to the edge. They both were. They always were. "Can I just breathe for a second? It's like you woke up today determined to fight."

"I woke up with blood on my sheets from innocents!"

"Oh please," Draco scoffed as he started to strip. He didn't care where his clothes landed as long as they came off and went away from him. The bedroom, in its elegant silver and green furniture, had a red and golden blanket covering the bed. Probably Snape's idea of a joke. It clashed horribly and was distracting, but not enough to drown out his words. "You'd like to think that every person that died last night was innocent. It's easier for you lot to break everything up like that. But newsflash: just because we're the bad guys doesn't suddenly turn everyone else into saints. You think there weren't murderers and rapists, and everyday criminals among the fray? _Wake up!_"

"They may not have been saints, but they didn't deserve what happened to them!"

There was that word again: _deserve_. It had been thrown about too much in the last two days. It seemed that everywhere she turned that word was haunting her.

"Does anyone?" he stood there in his silk boxers, skin flawless at first glance, but the longer and harder she looked the more she noticed little welts over his chest and back as he walked around to his side of the bed.

It pissed her off that he even had a side of the bed, that they're _that_ married already.

Nonetheless, she couldn't ignore the marks that hadn't been there before. She couldn't ignore that someone had _whipped_ and marred that unsullied skin. _Her husband_.

"Who did that to you?" she jumped onto the bed and knelt next to him. Her hand trembled as she held it above the raised skin on his chest. He had a light smattering of blonde hair on his chest that were smooth and raised goosebumps on her arms.

"I'm okay," he said tersely, but she couldn't just let this go. Not this. Not him. Not ever.

Not if the sky fell down around them and the world caved in. They were _linked_. They were bound, and that silk thread never felt tighter as it did right now, seeing the cost of living on the dark side.

"Who did this?" Hermione whispered harshly. She knew the answer in her heart, but she still had to hear it. She needed to hear the name fall from his lips—those lips that pressed against hers and made her feel like she was flying and sinking.

"The Dark Lord, of course," Draco rolled his eyes. "You thought your disobedience didn't have a cost?"

"But why didn't he punish _me_?" Hermione asked almost frantically. _No, no, no_. This wasn't right. This wasn't okay. She'd been the one who took too long to bow down. Draco might deserve a lot of things but not this—not for something he hadn't done.

"You're my wife," Draco lifted his hand, grasped hers, and lifted it to his lips. His lips traced her fingers lightly, remembering the feel of them on him. Reminding her of his vows that fateful day he'd convinced her to marry him. "He knew that the moment he touched you, he'd lose my allegiance…men'll take a lot, even threats to their families. But once that threat becomes action, well, that's not the way to gain loyalty. Even _he_ understands that, even if he doesn't feel love and loyalty to anyone but himself."

"I'm sorry that you were hurt," Hermione looked away from his lips nipping at her fingers. It was the closest to an apology that he would ever get from her for her hypocritical behavior and accusing stare all day.

A familiar blush spread over her cheeks and chest at his ministrations. Draco smiled a rare smile in response, and lifted her over him with his other arm. His strength didn't surprise her, but his swiftness did. She hadn't expected to be straddling him simply because she admitted to acting slightly irrational. She might not had proclaimed it out loud, but it was enough for them.

They understood, even in the silence, and it was nice. It was nice even when it was bad—horrific, dangerous, and _what-is-wrong-with-the-universe_ crazy.

Draco's dangerous smile didn't vanish as he leaned against the headboard, ground Hermione against him, and threw his head back in silent surrender and bliss.

"_Fuck,_ you always feel so good," he reveled in the satisfaction of having her above him, _with him_, because Hermione hadn't stopped rotating her hips.

Out of habit, Hermione had stopped wearing underwear to bed, since Draco always seemed to rip them off on the nights he loved her hard. Honestly, he loved her hard often. She preferred it that way, too. It reminded her that all of this was real. It reminded her that she wasn't floating in out of space, lost in a dream made up of Dark Marks and random moments of pleasure.

Her body slid against his, and _damn the world_ if he wasn't at her mercy. She felt powerful, _so_ powerful. She couldn't stop the wicked smile the fell on her own lips, like a piece of heaven touching down on Earth.

His hands roamed her body—her neck, cheek, shoulders, breasts, thighs, stomach. He wanted to touch all of her, to remind her why she married him in the first place.

This desire that laid between them—so deranged and disgusting in its illogical greatness.

"We should fight more often," he quipped.

Hermione shook her head, the smile gone from her mouth in seconds at the thought. "We fight _all the time_."

"Not like today," he smirked, and oh, he was _born_ dangerous, Hermione was sure. "You were a whole new level of annoying."

"_I_ wasn't the one that brought the war into our bed!" Hermione pinched his chest, forgetting about the welts.

A hiss escaped Draco, but she wasn't sorry. She couldn't be because as soon as she had pinched him, his hand had flown through the air and landed on her bottom with a resounding _SMACK!_

_Yes, yes_. This kind of pain she could handle. This kind of pain made her grind herself harder on him. It was the kind of pain that couldn't exist without pleasure.

"Tsk, tsk, _wife_," Draco purred as he maneuvered his shorts off without upsetting Hermione's position. It was a testament to his determination that he succeeded.

"Still not okay," Hermione gasped as Draco slid into her like he had been destined to be _just there_.

"I know," Draco wrapped his hand around her hair and pulled. He loved the way she arched her back when he did that. He loved gazing upon her as she rode him to her release—it felt like he was watching poetry in motion, or the greatest sonata in action ever written. He felt submerged in her. "I know, but it's better this way."

Hermione went slow, _so slow_. She wanted to hear him, each gasp and groan. Each word because she knew this meant something. They were on the precipice of some kind of middle ground in their ever rampant war.

"How was me waking up to a scene from a horror movie _better_?" her eyes widened incredulously, though she lost concentration because his hand found her bottom again. _SMACK! SMACK!_

_Yes, yes. Just like that_.

She wanted to focus, she wanted to focus so bad but it felt too good. Too perfect. She wished they could be like this forever.

"Because," Draco's hand gripped her waist hard enough to bruise, stopping her movements. "Now you've seen what I can do. You've seen what I'm willing to do, and how far I can go. Knowing and _seeing_ aren't the same thing, Granger. They _can't_ be—so now you've _seen_ and _really _know. Now, if you can—if you can still—if you _still want me_, then it'd be real."

He wanted to ask her, Hermione knew, but he just couldn't. His pride wouldn't let him ask what they both knew he was trying to ask anyway.

_Say no, say no_, her head screamed at her. She didn't want him anymore. How could she? He hadn't just killed for her, he'd done _monstrous_ things. He'd ruined any idea she could've had of him being misunderstood and secretly virtuous.

He'd never be a paradigm of virtue or harmless.

_Say no, say no. _

But Hermione couldn't stop.

_It's not about what anyone deserves_.

She leaned forward, let her hands trail up his stomach muscles that rippled as she went, and kissed his mouth; her kisses were better than wine, and just as intoxicating.

_I'm yours._

_I love you_.

He drove into her recklessly, and she pushed down on him, body pulsing irrepressibly. They were immersed in the fury of their passion, in the ardor of their truths.

"This is real," Draco said roughly as though the words had been torn from his chest.

Maybe they were. Perhaps every second inside of her was like an exorcism of the best kind. Abruptly, she went slow again, _agonizingly slow_. Draco grunted his need, for he was at her mercy. Hermione's hands reached for his, and lifted it until the Dark Mark was in front of her.

There it stood imbedded in his forearm, glorious in its cruelty and permanent in its monstrosity. It mocked her, whispering horrendous things in her ear with its presence, but she felt the fullness of being stretched by Draco, and it overtook her. He overtook her.

She loathed him for it, maybe just as much as he despised her sometimes, too. But they were too far gone to care.

_Say no, say no._

Her lips burned as they touched the Dark Mark; Draco inhaled sharply, floored, moved, and in the greatest throes of hunger and sensuality; there was nothing sexier and more arousing than Hermione Granger kissing his Dark Mark—proof of his hideous soul, and she kissed it anyway, pink tongue peeking ever so slightly out of swollen lips; _they were going direct to Heaven, they were going direct the other way_; none of it mattered because they were connected; they were connected to each other and destroyed by each other.

"I still want you," Hermione whispered huskily. It was like the words were the _just right_ cord that had been struck, because her body started to move desperately and violently.

Draco moved right along with her.

She bit at his chest, and he dug his fingers into her bottom, powerful in every thrust.

_Don't stop. Don't stop. _

_Never. _

_Yes, yes, yes. _

_Take it, Granger. Take all of me. _

_Please, please, Malfoy. More. _

Hermione felt his Dark Mark burn against her, and she could only imagine the kind of pain it caused him. But it didn't matter. Not right now. Not as he drove _harder_ and _deeper_, so fucking deep that she cried out. Her cries were like the siren's song condemning him so sweetly, because he could never go back. Not anymore. Not after the feel of her wrapped around him was seared into his very flesh.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck. _

_Yes, yes, yes. _

_Merlin, Granger, so fucking good._

_I can't—I can't stop._

_Don't stop. Let go, Granger. Fuck—. _

_I can't—I'm going to—_

_That's it. Just like that. _

She could have been a queen, and her body the throne at which Draco worshipped, because as she dug her nails into his skin, and whispered "I still want you" like a mantra and a hysterical vow as she twitched and shuddered, he worshipped her. He worshipped her like he had never thought he could.

Nothing mattered as they flew through each other, and into the arms of rapture.

Rapture was a beautiful thing made of all the colors of the rainbows sometimes. Other times, like tonight, rapture was made of Darkness, that living creature that Hermione would swear presided over her life lately.

It was indeed only in the dark that they spoke most Truths—any truths that mattered. Maybe that would change, someday.

"You can't fix everything with sex, you know," Hermione murmured once she'd rolled off him and was comfortably settled on her stomach, face towards him, chin propped on top of the back of her hands on her pillow.

His silver eyes indulged in the greatest mystery of her body—drinking in the beads of sweat on her neck and exposed back.

_You can't fix everything with sex_.

She meant it as an admonishment, but he was Draco Malfoy, and he'd perfected the art of hearing what he wanted to hear a long time ago.

That dangerous smirk, the one filled with passion, lust, and a quiet challenge, graced his lips like an anointment from the gods themselves.

_You can't fix everything with sex_.

"Like _hell_ I can't," Draco whispered in return as his hands grasped her firmly, flipped her onto her side, her back to his front, lifted an elegantly smooth and shapely leg, and plunged into her again. Her moans ricocheted off the walls, beautiful, animalistic, and _so fucking satisfied_. "_Like hell I can't_."

* * *

Soo, what do you guys think? Too much? Not enough? I tried not to be too graphic, but I might have failed superbly. Also, I'm desperately looking for another quote (appx a paragraph long) to surround the next four or five or seven chapters around since _A Tale of Two Cities_ quote has come to an end, so if anyone has any suggestions, I'm all ears! Anywho, love it? Hate it? Let me know and Review! **Reviews are love** :)


	8. Dancing With Demons

Disclaimer – I own nothing.

A.N – I had a serious love/hate relationship with this chapter, as what you are looking at is the third (fourth?) draft of the second half of this chapter. This chapter is going to get a bit (very) intense, so I hope you guys are strapped in!

On that note: a special THANK YOU, I ADORE YOU to **olivieblake** for beta'ing that first draft, which was seriously another level of dark (we all would have wept together), and for beta'ing the flashback scene.

Also, a very loud shout out and YOU'RE AWESOME, TAKE MY HUGS to my new beta **ellabelle12**! :)

To **TheseLittleWonders**, **tilly90**, **ellabelle12**, **Eidyia1**, **fncmullin**, **Team Dramione**, , **RooOjoy**, **Emeraudedeux**, **lle1987**, **HeatherQuynn**, **olivieblake**, , **Nichole O**, **Estrunk**, **TheLittlePrincessSnowWhite**, **TassanaBurrfoot**, **Chester99**, **TeamKristen4U**, **Guest**, **viola1701e**, **mesa24**, **pgoodrichboggs**: You guys are all so awesome that I just want to Molly Weasley hug each and every one of you. Your kind words of encouragement and support mean everything—they make me smile, laugh, feel all warm inside, and motivate me to continue writing when I get stuck. I seriously can't rave about you all enough. I've worked super hard on this chapter, so I hope it's up to par and that you all enjoy!

_/Don't let me show cruelty, though I may make mistakes_

_Don't let me show ugliness, though I know I can hate_

_And don't let me show evil, though it might be all I take_

_Show me love, show me love, show me love/_

_-_Hundred Waters, Show Me Love

Chapter 8 – Dancing with Demons

"_What are we doing, Granger?" Draco asked quietly. His chin was propped in the space between her breasts, his fingers playing idly with a few wild curls of her hair._

"_I don't know," she shrugged awkwardly, half lying on the bed, and half propped up against the headboard. "Contrary to popular belief, I don't always have the answers." _

"_What answers _do_ you have?"_

"_I know how I feel."_

"_How do you feel?"_

_She looked away, because she wasn't ready to share that. But the moon looked so huge, so bright, and so within reach that she wondered if maybe it was time to share. Maybe it was time to be better than they were. _

"_Tell me the truth, Draco—"_

"_Draco? When did that happen?" he smiled, and it was the sweetest feeling. So infinite in its beauty, because, gods, he was beautiful. _

"_Do you love me?" Hermione ignored his question in favor of her own. The moon was moving closer. Time was running away from them. She lifted her arms and hugged him tighter to her, so tight that the universe could have exploded from within his ribcage. She repeated urgently, "Do you love me?" _

"_Granger," he whispered tenderly. It was too much and not enough. Tears sprung in her eyes, and she could barely stand to look at him. "Love is so fucking normal. When have we ever been that simple?"_

_She couldn't help but let out a teary laugh at his outstanding audacity. But there was a mountain of sincerity in his eyes. Silver became the new color of love, and it ensnared her the way only he could. _

_She was captivated. _

_But the tears started to flow freely, and her body began to tremble in distress. _

"_I need you to love me, Draco," Hermione admitted. The moon was upon them. It was crashing into Hogwarts, and everything was falling apart. _

_The world was disintegrating all around them, but he wouldn't budge—he didn't know how to, because Hermione's heartbeat was like the greatest anchor ever created, and it kept him on shore, level, connected forever to her. _

"_Is that all you need, Granger?" Draco lifted his head, slowly crawled up her body, trailing feather light kisses as he went in search of her mouth. "Is that all you require? My love?" _

"_Yes," Hermione nearly sobbed. "That's all I need. I swear it, by Merlin, that's all." _

_Draco kissed her deeply as Hogwarts fell before their very eyes. He kissed her with the fervor of a man who had lost all hope, and believed unequivocally that he could find it again in her. _

_Hermione kissed him as though the world could be recreated through their passion, made better through their love. _

_Even in a moment like this, they didn't want the same things. Not really. But that was okay, too. Their differences made them better somehow, more honest. More brutal too, sometimes. But they could live with that, as long as they had each other. _

"_Please," Hermione begged as gravity started to force them apart. It was pulling Draco away from her. It was stealing him slowly, and she couldn't—she just couldn't. "Please."_

"_Fuck, I love you," Draco said frantically as the severity of the situation attacked him. His arms were bulging as he fought against the universe that was trying so hard to rip her from him, trying to tear them apart. "I love you, Granger. You know this!"_

"_I don't," Hermione dug her nails into his skin, trying to keep him. But try as she might, he was floating away. He was floating away into that elusive darkness that tore at her chest with its cruel existence. "I don't know. Draco!" _

"You know_—Granger!" _

"_Don't let go!"_

"_I won't! Fuck," Draco's eyes started to tear. He couldn't help it. He was going to lose her. He was going to lose her, and he wasn't sure if he ever had her. "I love you. I've loved you for so long—"_

"_Not long enough!" she openly cried hysterically. It hurt so much to know there was a time that he hated her. The knowledge felt like a boulder on her stomach, heavy and unmovable._

"_Too long!" Draco disagreed as his own tears finally slid down his cheeks. The wind whipped around them harshly, slinging his tear drops against her like sharp diamonds cutting into her flesh. Only they cut directly into her soul. "Loving isn't enough, Granger! It'll never be enough. Yes, fuck, I love you, but that's just the surface. That's just the beginning. I swear it, Granger—"_

Hermione opened her eyes suddenly, Draco's loud snore having awoken her, tears sliding smoothly down the side of her face. Draco's form slept next to her, his arm thrown possessively over her stomach.

The moon glowed through the enchanted window, taunting her with its power.

She continued to cry, letting the tears wash away the madness in her heart, because she wanted it all to be true.

She let herself cry like she hadn't cried in a long time—_ugly_, heart-wrenching sobs that shook the bed—because she had wanted Draco's love to be genuine.

His love wasn't real, and it broke her heart.

She'd hate him tomorrow for it.

* * *

The first week of classes was the strangest. There was a heaviness in the air that had everyone on edge. The only ones immune were the First Years who had no clue what Hogwarts had always been like _before_. That magnificent Before—before Dumbledore had died, before the war had permeated the very walls of the place.

The worst, hands down, was DADA. Alecto Carrow had been placed to teach First through Third Year, while Amycus was tasked with Fourth through Seventh Year; clearly Snape thought that only Amycus was at all suited to teaching. Well, as suited to it as any madman could be.

Horrible stories were spreading by the end of the first day concerning both twins, though Amycus Carrow had been deemed slightly more unhinged than his sister.

_Who wants to try non-verbal asphyxiation, today?_

_Who thinks they can cast ten slicing curses back to back?_

Frankly, the class seemed more and more like Death Eater training each day. Even worse were the bouts of helplessness that could assault Hermione; she had no real power to stop anything—she wasn't even named Head Girl, the honor of the esteemed titles of Head Girl and Boy going to Padma Patil and Ernie MacMillan. Nonetheless, Hermione drew a sick comfort from the fact that being Head Girl didn't earn Padma any special treatment from Amycus Carrow either. Oddly enough, Amycus tried to ignore Harry most of the time—most likely the product of a harsh talking to by Voldemort and Snape; _Potter was His. His to torture, and His to kill_. It was just the irrationally possessive sort of thing Voldemort would say.

Some days he'd fail, other days he'd fail horribly, and those were the days that Hermione felt as though her nerves were being fried and shot straight to hell. Harry and his prideful mouth refused to keep quiet in front of an unjust verbal attack on his character. Suffice it to say that someone always ended up in the infirmary, regardless if it was the intended recipient of a curse or not.

Amycus frowned severely whenever Hermione walked into the room, and Draco was never far away when they attended the class. Most people made it a point to sit next to or at the very least _near_ their fiancés or wives when it was time for DADA.

Hermione's inner feminist raged whenever she saw Draco scowling at Amycus if the man stepped too close to her. She could handle herself!

She gave up caring by the second week when she realized that she had been so focused on Draco's reactions that she had completely missed Ron and Harry's overprotective stance when the man came near as well.

Now, into the third week, Hermione thought she had caught a rhythm of sorts—wake up, get dressed, go to meals, spend the day with Harry, Ron and occasionally Ginny and Luna, make sure to stay away from either of the Carrow siblings, go to dinner, walk to the Slytherin dorms, sit with Tilly for a little bit, antagonize Pansy pettily (she'd stop once Pansy _learned_ to stop sending longing looks to _her_ husband), get ready for bed, spend most of the night making love to Draco (really, the man was _insatiable_!), fall asleep in the embrace of ecstasy, and wake up again.

Hermione thought she'd caught a very nice rhythm, though the situation could always be better. She and Draco could start actually _talking_. They did talk—about classes, about how unsafe it was for her to go off on her own to the library without any of her friends, about their coursework, and even about quidditch. It was nice because caring wasn't a sentiment that either of them showed easily to each other, but it was also highly annoying. Hermione wasn't an invalid! She was not a damsel in distress! She could protect herself if need be; she'd done so in the past against an entire group of Death Eaters. She liked to think that she'd only gotten better.

What hadn't gotten better was _real_ communication between Hermione and Draco. They spoke about things that didn't really matter. Every once in a while he'd walk into the room like a man possessed by all types of demons, kiss her hard, and then whisper in her ear.

These were the best nights. He'd whisper that they _belonged to each other_, that _nothing short of hell itself would separate _them. These were the nights that she knew he went to Death Eater meetings. It was hard, reconciling the person she knew he'd been a few hours before with the husband who nipped, sucked, and made her feel like she'd spontaneously combust if she didn't hold him tighter, kiss him harder, want him deeper. So fucking deep.

The irony wasn't lost on her that these nights, the nights that her conscience railed against all the injustices that she'd envisioned he'd performed were the nights she wished would happen more.

Understanding meant nothing. The way he could spend hours purging his demons within her, pushing her to her limits, plummeting them both the worst and best versions of themselves meant nothing if they couldn't face it all in the daylight. They couldn't continue like this forever. Something was stirring—she could feel it.

One Saturday morning, no later than 8am, Hermione sat alone by the enchanted window, watching the sparkling water below of the Black Lake. Normally on a Saturday morning, she would have already been in the library, revising, researching, or just reading for pleasure, but the situation had changed. Hogwarts might still be safe on the surface, but it didn't _feel_ safe to Draco, and she could live without another lecture from her husband for leaving so early on her own.

"You're up and about early," Hermione noted.

Draco, unsurprisingly, was not an early riser. Living a life of leisure had ensured that he spent Saturdays and Sundays in bed as long as possible, and then awoke with a superior look as though _she_ had been the one lazing about.

"We need to talk," he said somberly. Hermione's stomach fluttered in nervousness. A thousand thoughts went through her head—all as horrible as the one before it. Images of Draco being tortured or worse flitted through her mind, and her body went rigid in fear. Draco saw her reaction, and instinctually knew what had happened. "Don't worry, it's nothing too terrible, but we do need to talk about it."

"About what?"

"I'll be taking my father's seat on the Wizengamot today."

Hermione didn't know what to do or say, so she did and said nothing. _The Wizengamot_! All the change that he could bring forth! He could petition to help the House Elves! He could rally others against Voldemort! A hope so pure roared in her chest. _This_ could be what the Order had been waiting for.

But she took in the worry lines on his face, though he tried to hide them with that constant dispassionate and imperturbable mask that he wore like a constant shield. She saw the coldness of his gaze; he knew what she had been thinking, and he shot the idea down without any words.

That's where they were—they could speak a whole conversation without saying anything at all. It was progress. If only it didn't hurt so much to be on opposite sides. If only it didn't feel so good to be wanted by him.

"Shouldn't you joining the Wizengamot be a good thing?" she asked cautiously, though the unspoken "for the Dark Lord" was as loud as anything they'd said so far.

Hermione wanted to look away from him, to hear him without seeing him, but she couldn't. She couldn't move from her position because something was coming. Something was coming, and she didn't want to be in motion when it hit her.

"It's a good thing and bad thing," he sighed. This was the Draco that carried too much, bore too much on his shoulders.

Hermione patted the space next to her. He walked the few steps to her, and slid into the space with the same grace and ease he slid into her. She couldn't help the blush that raged on her cheeks; he raised an eyebrow in return, but this moment wasn't about that.

She pushed at his arm, a silent demand to turn around. He did so, and reluctantly slouched against her, his back to her front, his leg straight before him on the seat, her legs bent on either side of him. She wanted to massage the pressure away, but they were too torn, too fractured.

They weren't _those_ people, even though they wanted to be.

Instead, she let her fingers run through his hair, much like she had imagined doing once upon a time, the first time she'd seen him run his own hand through his hair in Third Year. She had looked at the way his fingers went smoothly all the way through, that annoying smirk permanently etched into his features, and had wondered what it would have felt like for her hands to replace his. She had wondered, and now she knew.

She knew, and it was a different type of pleasure. A simple pleasure, but simple didn't always mean simplistic.

He moaned in response, and relaxed his body into hers. They were silent. In this silence, the sun shone through the opulent enchanted window with its snake engravings. All of the rooms in the Slytherin dorms except the common room, had enchanted windows that gave the appearance of being above the lake, instead of under it. They basked in the heat of the sun, in the clearness of the blue sky. For just a moment, they let themselves feel what they could if they stopped loathing each other so much, so _often_.

It was a warmth that spread through their toes, up to their fingertips. They were connected in a moment, suspended in time—frozen from the way things always were, and the way things would be once he took his family's ancestral Seat.

But this moment wasn't real. Not to Hermione. This wasn't who they were, and she didn't like to play pretend. Not after Draco had shown her the cruel beauty of truth. She'd never play pretend again, and so she let her fingers continue to rove this hair, but broke the silence.

"_Talk to me_," she pleaded quietly. She wanted to be _with _him in everything so badly, but he would never just let her all the way in. "I'm your wife, Malfoy. Despite what side on this war I'm on, I'm still your wife, and I'm here. I'm here _with _you if you'll let me."

"What can I tell you, Granger? What can I say without fear that you'll run to the Order with it?" He truly wanted to know. He wanted to know where they drew those lines. Because it was so hard to see sometimes. Especially with Snape breathing down his neck, and the Dark Lord insisting on private meetings with him. "How can I know when I'm talking to Hermione Malfoy and not Hermione Granger?"

She let his words wash over her. She let them settle into her ribcage, somewhere brutal and uncomfortable. If words were weapons, Draco would be the greatest blacksmith in the world. But Hermione had learned in that first month of marriage that sometimes, the best weapon was honesty. She had learned that from him.

She hated that she had learned that lesson at all.

"I'm _always_ Hermione Malfoy," she pulled a little harder as she continued to run her fingers through his golden lock, at the roots, not the ends, because she knew it hurt more. It was petty, but it assuaged something feral inside of them that needed to hurt and be hurt by each other. "I'll _always be_ Hermione Malfoy, now. That'll never change, and it doesn't matter what you tell me. I would _never_ tell the Order anything that could be traced back to you, something that could get you in trouble. Something that they couldn't have found out through someone else."

She remembered the welts on his chest and back, she remembered how brutal those welts looked the following day, black and blue on his fair skin. She vowed to herself that she'd never be the reason for Voldemort to hurt him ever again.

She knew as soon as she made that vow that she'd break it; she was the defender of the light, self-righteous in her causes. One day she'd fight, and Voldemort would try to break her through Draco.

One day, but not today. Not today.

Still he didn't say a word, and so Hermione repeated his own words back to him. "We're in this together, remember."

He did remember. He remembered too often, and it tore at him that he felt he could only be in _this_ with her in small doses. But he wasn't that poor Sixth Year who had been running around like a chicken with its head cut off, wracked with fear and guilt over a task that had seemed too enormous. That wasn't him anymore.

He wasn't desperate or a puppet. _Never again_.

"Being on the Wizengamot isn't going to be a picnic," Draco said as he shifted his head on her shoulder to be able to look up at her. "There'll be laws to be passed, and I'll need to decide which ones to support and which to oppose. That kind of situation can get tricky for us."

"With great power comes great responsibility," Hermione joked idly; the muggle superhero reference came to her automatically, though she just received a blank look for her efforts. They could get whiplash from the way their conversations changed shape so suddenly, but that too was intrinsically them. She shook her head, "Remind me to force you to watch Spiderman on the telly when we get back home."

"More like with great power comes great problems," Draco snorted. "And I might have to have a chat with the owner of that hotel if we're going to be calling it home. The rate he's charging us is practically criminal!"

"Oh, don't be cheap," Hermione teased good-naturedly. It was a refreshing change of pace, to let go of that festering anger at each other for a moment. "I'm sure you could buy the hotel if you wanted."

"Not at the rate he's charging us, I couldn't," he grumbled, but let his eyes rove her face. These kinds of moments were rare, but they always left him feeling like the ground was shaking beneath his feet. _She_ always left him unbalanced. He shook his thoughts from the light laughter in her mahogany eyes. "This is serious, Granger. This could go badly for us. _Really_ badly if I don't play my cards right."

"Then _we'll_ play your cards right, won't we," she responded with an air of confidence that left Draco slightly awed.

She believed in him. Didn't matter that their passion could so quickly turn into vitriol and scorn. Didn't matter that they practically redefined the term "star-crossed lovers."

_I'm yours. _

_I love you_.

_Fuck_, why did it always feel like they were inching closer and closer to that truth whenever she said things like that? Whenever she gave him that look she wore now?

But the look in her eyes faded; he took a breath in tandem with her; the sun shined brightly in the sky; her hands never stopped moving, and a slight tremble shook his frame (from desire or fear of all the things to come; he wasn't sure).

He trembled, and she noticed.

"We'll play this right, Malfoy," she assured him. "We have to. We don't have a choice, because losing isn't an option."

It never occurred to her that she was thinking of ways to play this war on both sides, just like so many others she'd once criticized silently.

* * *

"You look worried," Ginny remarked as she and Luna took a seat next to her on the lawn of Hogwarts. "What's wrong?"

"Must be the Umgubular Slashkilter that seems to be in season," Luna said randomly. "They're appearing everywhere, aren't they?"

"Nothing's _wrong_, per se," Hermione ignored Luna with a roll of her eyes, and answered vaguely. She couldn't help but frown at her own non-answer. This wasn't who she was. This wasn't who she needed to be. Not with Ginny, her closest female friend. Not even with Luna, though the girl could vex her with her made up creatures and logic. She sighed, "Draco's taking his father's seat on the Wizengamot."

"Why?" Ginny asked in confusion.

"His father's still a wanted escapee from Azkaban," Hermione couldn't help but smile because if Draco hadn't pointed that same fact out to her before they'd gotten married, she would have had the same response as Ginny. It was amazing how small her own world, _their_ world, the world of the Light side, really was. "It doesn't matter that most everyone knows that he's just in Malfoy Manor lounging about and catering to the Dark Lord. The DMLE can't just barge into an Ancient and Most Noble house without proof."

"Hmm" Luna smiled that unfocused smile of hers as she gazed into the distance. Perhaps she saw things that Hermione didn't. Maybe she had answers that Hermione needed desperately as to how to turn a mostly hostile marriage into something more, outside of sex. Something so much _more_. "He's not the only one. Theo's taking Lord Nott's place as well."

"How do you know that, Luna?" Ginny asked.

Hermione's eyes swiveled to Luna's incredulously. Surely Luna had told their friends of her possible engagement. Surely she wouldn't have kept such vital information to herself…

"I'm engaged to Theo, of course," Luna said flippantly.

"Since when?" Ginny gaped.

Hermione couldn't help but shake her head in a weird admiration. Luna definitely lived her life on her terms. Hermione grudgingly respected her for it, if only because she was being pulled in every other direction regardless of what she wanted.

"Well, we've been in talks for a while since the law was passed," she continued to look elsewhere as she answered, as though she hadn't a care in the world. But Hermione knew that wasn't true. If Theo was joining the Wizengamot, then certainly Luna had the same worries as she did. "We've only established that we're engaged, but haven't settled on a wedding date yet or filed any of the papers until everything's settled."

"What things?" Hermione and Ginny asked simultaneously.

"I'm not quite sure," Luna finally settled her serene stare on them for an instant. "Haven't thought to ask, really."

"Why didn't we know any of this?" Ginny frowned, a blazing look of betrayal on her face.

"Hermione knew," Luna shrugged.

Hermione groaned, and held out her hand in a physical show of defense before Ginny launched a tirade her way. "I only found out once I got to school, and since I'm the last to know any sort of gossip, I'd just assumed you all knew, too."

"Well, we didn't," Ginny huffed in annoyance. Hermione knew that her ire would disappear in a few moments; it was extremely hard to maintain anger at someone who wouldn't notice—Luna had perfected a long time ago the ability to ignore the distasteful emotions of others toward her. Ginny, predictably, sighed in consternation and moved on. "Why does it matter anyway that they're on the Wizengamot now? So you'll be acquiring your titles early, but I doubt you care about those types of things, Hermione."

It hadn't even occurred to Hermione that for Draco to take his spot on the Wizengamot he'd have to ascend to his lordship—taking her with him. She could box his ears, she was so furious suddenly. He'd barely given her a few hours of notice! She knew next to nothing about being a _Lady_. She'd have to go straight to the library to figure out exactly what it meant to be Lady Malfoy.

Or she'd ask Tilly in private. The girl really was a fountain of useless (and not so useless) information about Purebloods, current affairs, and everything in between.

"I don't," Hermione fumed silently. She tried to keep a hold of that anger, but she couldn't help the way her knuckles turned white from her clenched fists just at the thought that he'd known for a while and had chosen to stay silent on the matter. "Things just sort of get more complicated now that he's on the Wizengamot, that's all."

"Not as complicated as Voldemort trying to kill you at every turn," Ginny belittled Draco's plight, _her_ plight.

Because _everything_ revolved around Harry Potter. It was typical Ginny behavior, though she didn't mean to be that way. She loved Harry, and Hermione could appreciate that. She could. But her own world couldn't center around Harry anymore. It couldn't. Not if she wanted to survive this war. Not if she wanted her marriage to be more than a constant battle of wills.

To both Hermione and Ginny's surprise, it was Luna who came to Hermione's defense.

"Yes, well, Harry isn't Hermione's husband," Luna pierced Ginny with a rare solid gaze that told her _exactly_ what she thought about her comment. "The Dark Lord is everyone's problem in their own way."

_Dark Lord_.

Hermione wondered if someone had told her not to say his name as well. It didn't matter because Luna looked at Hermione, and nodded ever so slightly.

They were both girls playing at being women, the same as Draco and Theo were boys playing at being men, in a world controlled by powerful and dangerous creatures masquerading as men with hearts.

Hermione nodded back.

* * *

"The man might be a crackpot," Theo raged. "But he's a bloody extortionist, too!"

"How much is he asking for?"

"Ten thousand gallons!" Theo cried, and Blaise's eyes bulged. Even Draco whistled in concurrence.

"That's pretty steep, mate." Blaise murmured. "Even for us."

"Steep?!" Theo ground out. "That's bloody highway robbery is what it is!"

"But Lovegood comes from a good family," Draco wondered. "He might not be rolling in money, but he's no Weasley. Nowhere near poor or destitute. So why the high price?"

"He might not be poor," Theo rolled his eyes. "But his newspaper, _The Quibbler_, isn't exactly a money-maker. It's filled with more nonsense than the _Daily Prophet_!"

"So he's making up the deficit with your marriage to Luna," Draco finally understood. Theo nodded grouchily, and Blaise couldn't help but laugh.

"Gotta give the man credit where it's due, Theo boy," Blaise's smile was filled with mirth, and infectious. "It's pretty genius. He knows why you're willing to marry the chit, and he's banking on you going for it at any means."

Draco couldn't help but chuckle. Xenophilius Lovegood might not be the sanest man in Wizarding Britain, but he was certainly clever.

Hermione didn't dare intrude on their conversation, but she watched from afar. Slytherin common room might have looked like any other common room in Hogwarts with its square and round coffee and studying tables, and its comfortable and elegant sofas, but socially, it was set up much like Hermione found Pureblood affairs were unconsciously set up: the wives or fiancés whose husbands were friends sat together, studying or gossiping in the intimate tables by either stairs, while the men whose friendships were founded on something more concrete (Hermione _hoped_) than simple association lounged near the fireplace discussing politics and private affairs of importance.

It was strange to see First and Second Years imitating the Sixth and Seventh Years in this manner, though she'd listened in to their conversation one day and realized that their conversations of importance were limited to the important affairs that their parents or older siblings had going on in their lives. They innocently spoke of quidditch games, and classes, ignorant to the very real problems that abounded, yet aware on some subconscious level that something wasn't quite right—it was in the set of their shoulders when they walked off to class, and the smiles that dimmed when someone mentioned DADA.

Suffice it to say that Slytherin House was vastly different to Gryffindor House.

Whereas active teenagers bustled in and out of the common room in Gryffindor, aspiring gentlemen and ladies waltzed in and out of the common room in Slytherin.

Everything had an air of formality, even among friends. Friendship among Slytherins, though as firm and real as any Gryffindor friendship, held a weight and history that wasn't present among Gryffindors. Hermione realized that when she told Draco one afternoon that she refused to sit with Pansy in the common room.

"_We're not friends, Malfoy."_ _Hermione had been walking with him to the quidditch pitch. Apparently, as his wife it was her duty to watch him practice, though she found it rather hilarious that he took for granted that she wouldn't betray Slytherin quidditch plans to Gryffindor. She wouldn't, but she didn't like the fact that he just assumed. As though she were on his side. Unquestionably. "She hasn't suddenly become less annoying and cruel just because I'm married to you. I'd dare say that cow has gotten even worse!"_

"_Don't care, Granger," Draco had pursed his lips. His arm had swung lightly with his broom in hand. "You can't just give her the cut direct, regardless of your personal feelings on the matter."_

"_Why not? I'm a free human being, and she's not made of glass or gold!"_

"_Because you're a Malfoy, now, and her name is Pansy Parkinson. The Parkinsons have been allies of the Malfoys for generations. Appearances and family loyalties may mean nothing where you come from, but they do to us, and whether or not you like it, you _are_ one of us now."_

"_What does me not wanting to spend time with Parkinson have anything to do with the Malfoys' relationship with her family?"_

_She hadn't asked to be difficult, though that was always an added bonus. She truly hadn't seen the connection, and frankly, that had everything to do with the Purebloods that she'd been exposed to. If Ron was upset with Harry, Harry still spoke to the rest of the Weasleys without a problem. _

"_Everything, luv," Draco had said sagely. It had been the absentminded "love" that threw her for a loop. She had wanted him to mean it, even if she didn't love him. Even if she might never love him, she wanted him to mean it. But Draco, boy until the end, obliviously continued on. "In Pureblood society, connections mean everything. Pansy is the only heir to the Parkinson name, which means one day she'll take the family seat on the Wizengamot, or pass it on to her son, etc. Yeah, I've already formed a connection with her, but that was back when everyone and their bloody aunt thought that I'd be getting married to her. Now that I'm married to you, it's up to you to keep those bonds with her. It would be unseemly for me to do so outside of the company of others, and I know you already see how common room politics work. I can't just walk up to your table, and sit down to talk to Pansy." _

"_I don't see why not," Hermione shrugged, trying to take it all in—the nuance of "common room politics." "It's not like there's some law. You Slytherins make everything more complicated than it has to be." _

"_Say what you want," he shrugged as they reached the pitch. The stars sparkled above their heads like little diamonds. "But things are what they are."_

_Hermione harrumphed, unmoved by Draco's logic. _

_He saw her displeasure, the night sky twinkling above them, so clear, and something had moved in him. Maybe it was a moment of teenage carelessness, where they misjudged their own power, their own authority in the universe, but Draco just wanted to kiss her and damn propriety or who could see them. _

_But they weren't those people. They barely liked each other on good days, despite their mutual desire. They weren't the Weasleys or Potters of the world who could kiss carelessly under the stars. _

_But, _fuck_, he had wanted to. _

_Maybe he had lost everything in that moment, where her eyes had sparkled and she'd seemed like such a _wife_, grumbling about social problems like who she was forced to sit with in the common room. _

_Hermione had seen his silver eyes smolder, and her breath had hitched, surprised and full of yearning, too._

_She had been so sure that he'd walk away. They weren't those people. They weren't. But Draco invaded her space instead. _

_Her eyes pleaded with him—to either retreat, or consume her; she hadn't been sure and neither was he. But Draco wouldn't run, _never again_. They were colliding, under the stars, in silence, in their very souls. They were being unburdened and chained simultaneously. He couldn't stand it. _

_He couldn't control it either, and so he bent his head and kissed her cheek softly. So softly that his kiss could have been a whisper. Hermione's hands lifted of their own accord, and latched to the lapels of his quidditch uniform. _

_He had looked at her, so close that his nose bumped her cheek as they swayed to the whims of gravity. Her eyes had closed when his lips touched her skin, and burned her. _

_He'd taken in her lashes, button nose, and defiant chin that always seemed to oppose him. He'd taken in the heat that she gave off so close, _so fucking close_, and he wanted to watch the world go up in flames around them—he wished that it would, if only so he wouldn't have to move. _

_But wishes weren't for the strong. Wishes weren't for those with power, and he'd never be powerless again. _

_Instead, he had pressed his lips to her skin, right below her ear, and said flatly, "Deal with it, Granger," and walked away abruptly. _

_She had been left, alone, gazing at his back under the stars. _

Now, as she listened in on Draco's conversation, she realized that more went in to marriage unions than hers had.

"Why would Mr. Lovegood be charging Theo?" Hermione couldn't help but ask Tilly. Unfortunately, Pansy and Daphne Greengrass sat with them, and heard Hermione's question.

"Well, _obviously_ you wouldn't know, would you?" Pansy said snidely. Hermione gritted her teeth, and tried to remember that Draco wanted her to play nice—even if it she was pretty sure Pansy was the Devil incarnate.

"No, I don't. Or else I wouldn't have asked," Hermione said sharply. _Merlin, give me patience_.

"Well, didn't—" Tilly began to ask Hermione if Draco hadn't given her parents money, but Daphne, thoughtful and socially graceful as always, saw where the question was headed and cut her off.

The girl really could be decent when she felt like it, and Hermione hadn't decided whether or not she liked Daphne, just as she was sure Daphne hadn't decided whether or not she liked her.

"I'm sure for someone who isn't raised in Pureblood customs, it's quite abhorrent, but families of Ancient and Noble houses especially tend to _pay_ the bride's family. It doesn't have to be money, since most pureblood families aren't wealthy. Some offer great poetry, or paintings done by the groom."

"This is a law?"

"Oh, no!" Tilly jumped to answer, slightly miffed that Daphne had answered when she hadn't been the one asked. "It's not a law, just an old Pureblood custom from a time when men gave money to the family of the bride to compensate for raising her. But, you know how wizarding society is—they tend to get stuck on things and never move on."

"But ten thousand gallons?" Hermione questioned incredulously.

"My grandfather paid _twice_ that amount to marry my grandmother," Pansy boasted smugly. "It's really about how much your husband thinks you're worth, I suppose—how much you're worth to him. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Granger, since I have it on the best authority that Drake didn't pay a sickle for you."

_Drake. Ugh. _

Tilly's eyes looked like they were about to pop out of her head, she was so scandalized. Daphne gasped quietly, and looked away quickly to hide her small smile at Hermione's embarrassment.

Daphne could also revel in other people's misfortune just as quickly as she could help someone out.

"Well, I'm sure that Draco—" Tilly began in that fretful way of hers as her hands waved this way and that way, but Hermione didn't need anyone fighting her battles.

She couldn't tell Pansy to go to hell, but that didn't mean that she couldn't hit her right where it would hurt the most.

She remembered images of Pansy loving Draco, wanting his love, from Draco's memories, and smiled maliciously.

"Yes," Hermione nodded mockingly, eyes hard, smile vicious. "Your grandmother must've certainly been worth a lot to your grandfather for him to pay that amount. And no, Draco didn't pay a sickle to marry me. But, well, he _did_ marry me, didn't he? So, I suppose that's _Mrs. Malfoy_ to you, Parkinson—oh that's right, _Miss_ Parkinson, you're not married yet, are you? Not even engaged. How horribly _embarrassing_ for you. Perhaps you should lower whatever price you're demanding, since, well, no one seems to think you're worth it. But what would I know, anyhow? I only married Draco, but you're right, he didn't pay a sickle. But then again, at least _I'm_ married."

"I'm not going to ruin my bloodline with—" Pansy started to rant, positively enraged.

"Tsk, tsk," Hermione taunted derisively, and took a page out of Narcissa Malfoy's handbook that she remembered hearing the older woman say. "There's no need to be up in arms about any of this. Wouldn't want to go throwing around vulgar and _horribly_ _common_ words, now would you? Just friendly conversation. After all, the Malfoys _have_ been allies of the Parkinson family for generations."

Pansy's body went completely rigid, as though she were controlling herself by sheer force of will. Daphne's face was filled with mirth—at least the girl was an equal opportunist when it came to enjoying other people's pain.

Draco's smile was sinful as he watched the scene unfold from his seat in front of the warm hearth. She'd learn, he smiled to himself. She'd learn.

* * *

Monday came hard and fast, and Hermione was itching to know what had gone on at the Wizengamot meeting on Saturday, but Draco had yet to share.

She knew he would eventually because he'd started tracing her back with his fingers when he thought she was asleep. It was a good sign; well, as good as any sign could get between them.

That morning, they shared DADA along with a healthy mix of Gryffindor, Slytherin, and a few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. The class started as normally as any class could with a notoriously suspected Death Eater teaching it.

That was until Amycus Carrow did the unexpected, and unthinkable—he stopped prowling around the classroom like a panther searching for its next food, and stared at them hard.

It reminded Hermione of Barty Crouch Jr. when he'd been impersonating Mad Eye Moody. It was unsettling, but in in a good way—in that way that everyone thought they just might learn something.

"Let's talk for a moment, yeah?" Amycus leaned against his desk at the front of class, and looked at everyone. It wasn't until this very moment that Hermione realized that he had the darkest blue eyes that she'd ever seen. His eyes looked like the ocean, and she had to look away. If it weren't for his psychosis, he'd almost be handsome.

Harry and Ron shared an ominous look, much like Blaise and Draco across the room.

"What do any of you _really_ know about the Dark Arts?"

Everyone was sure that it was a trick question, but no one would dare call him on it. No one wanted to be today's punching bag.

"Mrs. _Malfoy_," Amycus called on Hermione—the first time this semester. It was as though everyone had held their breath, it was so still in the classroom. Draco's knuckles were turning white from his grip on the table in front of him.

"Easy, mate," Blaise whispered to Draco, but Draco knew that if Amycus made one wrong move, he'd lose it. No one touched what was his. _No one. _

"You've got a voice, girl!" Amycus pushed when Hermione said nothing. His voice boomed like a metal ruler hitting the top of a wooden desk. "What do you know about the Dark Arts?!"

"The Dark Arts taint the soul," Hermione spoke slowly. She wasn't sure what kind of answer he was looking for, and he wasn't the type of teacher that she could simply ask.

"Yes, yes," Amycus sneered. "The Dark Arts, doom and gloom, we get it. Don't you have a brain, girl? Stop regurgitating what those fools have taught all of you. What do you _really_ know about the Dark Arts?"

He pierced her with a gaze so intense that Hermione was afraid that she'd go up in flames if he stared any longer. That or disappear from the force of his will.

Draco didn't like the attention Amycus was giving Hermione any more than she did.

"She doesn't know anything about the Dark Arts, _Professor_," Draco mocked Amycus' position with a twist of his lips, and a hard gaze.

"Yes, yes," Amycus ignored the dig. He wouldn't be cowed by little Draco Malfoy who wasn't so little anymore. "But _why_ wouldn't she know anything about the Dark Arts?"

He looked around at the class, and very timidly a few hands were raised. Everyone knew things were bad when even the Slytherins hesitated in talking in DADA.

"She doesn't know anything about it because she's never tried it before," Vincent Crabbe said. It was a valid answer, and apparently just the one Amycus had been waiting for.

"Exactly!" Amycus boomed. "What can anyone know about the Dark Arts if they've never tried it before? I mean, _really_, tried it—tried to feel it."

Everyone could see it coming, like a crashing plane, but no one could move away from its path. Everyone was stuck to their seats.

"So," he continued. "I want everyone to pair up. Today, you'll be practicing the torture curse. _Crucio!_"

"On each other?"

"But how are we supposed to cast it?"

"Isn't it illegal?"

People were speaking over each other, disturbed and heartbroken at the thought of having to perform such a curse themselves. But Hermione could only look at Draco.

Draco only had eyes for Hermione.

If anyone would cast the curse on either of them, it'd be each other. Yeah, they could do it. They hated each other enough for it.

"Silence!" Amycus shouted, a manic gleam entering his eyes. Silence descended upon the room, everyone aware of what would come if they didn't heed the warning in his stare. "Why don't we have one of your peers explain it? Nott perhaps? Or maybe Malfoy? Yes, yes, Mister Malfoy! Tell the class how to cast _crucio_."

Everyone looked at Draco, wonder and disgust mixing. Some couldn't believe he'd ever cast it. Others could see it too clearly, because they saw him only as a monster.

"The curse isn't about any specific movement," Draco began, his voice solid and secure in a world that was slowly crumbling around them. No one wanted to do this. _Please_, Hermione pleaded silently. _Do something_. But he wouldn't. He knew he wouldn't. _Deal with it_, he had told her, and this fell into that category. They all had their crosses to bear, and this wouldn't be one of his. "All of the unforgivables are about _intent_. You have to _want_ to hurt someone. You have to _want_ to make them feel excruciating pain. You have to _desire_ their screams. Anything less than that, and you might as well tickle them for all the pain they'd feel."

Amycus had been nodding the entire time. Harry had been looking at his desk, remembering when he'd tried it on Bellatrix—it hadn't lasted long, but it had worked. It had worked, which meant that he might not be so different from Draco Malfoy after all.

Ron and the rest of the class were captivated.

Time didn't exist. They didn't exist. Only the Dark Arts. Only the image of _crucio_.

But then…

"Why don't we have a volunteer," Amycus leered, his gaze intent on Hermione. "Come Mrs. Malfoy."

Hermione couldn't move. She couldn't.

She was back at the Death Eater meeting, right before the Revel. She was surrounded by shadows and fear. Move. Run. _Do something_. But she couldn't. She couldn't. She was too afraid.

"_Come Mrs. Malfoy,_" _Voldermort had said smoothly._

Tears came unbidden to her eyes, and she shut them tight. She was brave. Braver than this. _Remember who you are_, but right now all she could be was that scared girl who had knelt before the Dark Lord.

_Am I not merciful? Am I not kind? _

_This wasn't real, this wasn't real_, but it felt so real. It felt too real. She just wanted to go home. _Just want to go home_. But this wasn't real. _Remember who you are_.

Draco saw her shut her eyes, as though the world could disappear if she didn't see it. His heart clenched tightly, suffocating him, crushing him from the inside.

She was so fucking scared, and she was _his_. _No one_ had the right to make Hermione afraid—he remembered when he had promised to protect her.

But how could he protect her when he was the monster? How could he play the hero and the beast?

_Screams. _

_Please, no!_

_Help!_

_Don't do this! I'm begging you! _

_Blood. So much blood. _

Draco felt as though he were back in a Death Eater meeting, being tested and tested over and over again until he couldn't move. _Over his dead body._

"Mrs. Malfoy—"

"_Get the hell away from her!_" Draco roared as his body sprung to action. He had been immobile before, stuck as though his limbs had forgotten to move.

But not anymore.

_Never again._

Draco's fists quacked, he was so incensed, as he stormed over to Hermione's seat. She hadn't opened her eyes, and he didn't give a damn either way.

That was his wife. _His wife_, and he didn't care how horribly they treated each other or how sweetly and terribly they clashed. She was his wife, and that mattered. That meant something to him, something he had yet to admit even to himself.

"Now, now, Malfoy," Amycus purred with a mischievous grin. They weren't in a classroom anymore, not anymore. This wasn't a Professor and his student pitted against each other. This was two Death Eaters facing off. "Wouldn't want to play with the big dogs, would you? I heard you were crying like an _ickle baby_ the last time Our Lord punished you."

But _fuck_ if Draco Malfoy wasn't a goddamn _great_ Death Eater now.

"Talk a big game, Carrow," Draco felt the coolness of his wand slip into his hand from his wrist wand-holder he'd taken to wearing. Magic, so energetic, so _raw_, flowed into his being. Yeah, he could do this. _This_ if nothing else, he could do, because the world would sink to the bottom of the ocean before he let anyone touch a hair on Hermione's head. He'd made a promise. _De magia et fides_—_on my magic and my honor._ "But I don't see your little twin around to protect you. What? Finally got tired of all the incest? Left you for Avery did she? Frankly, I'm not surprised."

He taunted Amycus with the same ease he always hit Hermione right where it hurt. Finding weaknesses was a specialty of Draco's and it was supremely useful when it came to dealing with others in the Death Eater ranks.

Amycus seethed, and it was a sight to behold. Unfortunately, it was also horrifically terrifying, and suddenly most of the class sprang into action and moved out of the way, lining the walls of the classroom. No one wanted to leave and miss the spectacle, but no one wanted to get hurt either.

Neville positioned himself far enough from the problem so as to not be a target, and close enough that he could help his friends if they needed him. That was the beauty of Neville Longbottom: he just wanted to help protect those he cared about, no hidden agendas necessary, no other worries on his mind.

Blaise smoothly moved next to Neville, prepared to help Draco if it came to it. Blaise and Draco, though complete opposites on many accounts, loved each other in a way only best friends, _brothers_, could. It was a quiet love that neither ever spoke about because they'd picked up along the road to growing up that men just didn't talk about those types of things. It was a quiet, unmovable love that kept his feet firmly planted next to Neville though every fiber in his being was itching and begging him to run, even as his mind wandered; he tried to draw some sort of comfort from one of his most cherished memories…

"_I'm a dragon!" seven-year-old Draco had said pompously, his chest puffed up like a peacock. _

"_Well, my mother says I'm a Prince!" little Blaise had responded, trying to one-up his friend. Theo had stood solemnly, and torn, looking from one to the other. _

_Lucius Malfoy along with his wife walked towards the children imperiously. They'd been the perfect image of poise, elegance, and power. They were everything that Draco, Blaise, and Theo were trying to be at the tender age of seven. _

"_How are you boys getting along?" Lady Malfoy asked, a beautifully tender smile gracing her face. Few saw this image of her—the loving parent and friend. Most only saw the typical icy Pureblood mask._

"_Well," Theo said slowly, trying to figure out a way to explain the strange situation they'd found themselves in. "Draco's a Dragon, Blaise is a Prince, and I don't know what I am." _

_Draco and Blaise nodded as though they'd planned the answer and Theo had nailed it perfectly. Narcissa's eyes filled with mirth, and Lucius chuckled throatily, his hair glimmering like sunshine and grace. He was the master of his home, king of his domain, and it showed in every movement; it showed in the lines of his face. _

_Lucius knelt on bended knee in front of the boys and motioned for them to come in closer. When they did, he cleared his face of all laughter. His voice had been somber, and his eyes intense when he'd said, "Yes. Draco _is_ a dragon, and Blaise a Prince, but you Theo, you are special, too. You're a Protector. You're the guard that protects the Dragon and the Prince, seeing how you always take the blame for any mischief gone wrong…Remember that boys," he made sure to make eye contact with each one. "Remember that you are each important—special—to each other." _

_Lucius stood up, and offered his arm to Narcissa. She gracefully took it, and together they had walked away, with the echoes of the three boys bouncing off the walls. _

"_Told you I was a Dragon!"_

"_Yea, well, I'm a prince—Uncle Lucius said so!"_

"_Hey, don't forget about me! I'm a protector!"_

The memory was back in a time of peace, when he'd known unequivocally what his place in the world was, and that his godfather, Lucius Malfoy, could fix anything, would come running if any of them needed him.

But that was then. Now, things were different. _Too different_.

Blaise turned and caught Theo's eyes; he saw what neither wanted to admit—that somehow they'd grown apart, and, today, fear ruled Theo, and Blaise would have to take the mantle of protector. It was terrifying.

Theo, though in the room, stood safely with the other students. If it were any other situation, he'd be right there next to Potter and Blaise backing Draco up. But this wasn't any other situation. He wasn't a Gryffindor, and he didn't boast any Gryffindor tendencies. Self-preservation was key, and he wasn't about to throw himself into the arena when he had too many reasons to stay out of it. The Notts were already in disfavor with the Dark Lord. Theo couldn't afford to be seen as siding with the Malfoys in Death Eater politics. Theo had seen enough to learn that Malfoys always landed on their feet, whether or not anyone helped them. Unfortunately, Notts weren't born with that kind of luck.

On the other hand, Harry and Ron stood, stiffly holding themselves and their wands in case they had to start fighting. Harry had been fully prepared to step in and defend Hermione, Ron too, but Draco had beaten them to it, and now Harry stood, wand ready, but mouth still open slightly in shock at the idea that Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, was openly standing up to another Death Eater on behalf of his Muggle-born wife. Harry knew he shouldn't be so surprised; Malfoy excelled at doing the unexpected, _being _unexpected.

Ron wasn't staggered at all; Purebloods defended their own, no matter what, and despite how much Ron wished it wasn't so, Hermione was Malfoy's.

They weren't on Draco's side, but Draco was on Hermione's side, so they'd jump into the fray if they needed to. They'd defend Draco, only because they'd be defending Hermione by default.

Didn't mean that Ron didn't glare at both Death Eaters. Bile rose up in his mouth at the knowledge that this was what he'd come to—without Hermione, and defending the Death Eater who stole her from him.

Didn't mean that Harry didn't wonder what Malfoys were made of—_truly_ made of. But Hermione was a Malfoy now, too. He refused to believe that whatever Draco was made of, whatever his heart and soul were made of, that Hermione's were made the same.

Instead, he kept his emerald eyes on the situation at hand, a constant vigil on the magic in the air; it was a trick that Dumbledore had imparted to him the year before—if there was a surge of magical force in the air suddenly, then someone was about to cast a spell, charm, hex, or curse. It was just the way magic worked.

He wasn't great at keeping track of the magic around him, at the way it moved and flowed, but he could feel it. He always felt it acutely. It was Voldemort in him. The part of him that couldn't escape Voldemort, try as he might.

Suddenly Amycus laughed, a brutal laugh that cracked and spiked oddly. He shook his shoulders as though he were about to begin the best dance in the history of mankind…or the dance that would save his life, because if he made _one_ move towards Hermione, Draco would kill him.

He would. He would kill him, and he didn't care who was watching.

Draco came from an Ancient and Most Noble House; if the Ministry hadn't torn down the doors of his Manor when his father had escaped Azkaban, they wouldn't throw him in jail for killing a suspected Death Eater. His army of lawyers would make sure of it, even if his name and position didn't.

Nonetheless, Hermione didn't move at Amycus' loud and irritating laughter, but her eyes snapped open. _Remember who you are._

This wasn't Voldemort. She wasn't there. Not anymore. Not for weeks. But it was like her body couldn't understand what she knew to be true. She felt her magic bubble to the surface, craning for that touch of darkness. Her temples had started to sweat, heart beating furiously.

Fear was a cruel master, and it dominated her well. Too well.

They would have to talk about that, find a way to fix that, but not now. Not today. There was a time and place for everything, but this wasn't it.

Draco spared her a glance, and in that instant she was grounded. Like a rope that had been stretched too far, and now released, Hermione slowly regained her bearing.

He did that for her. He brought her down to Earth.

She wasn't grateful, and he didn't need her to be. That wasn't who they were, and it likely never would be. She was fire, he was ice, and together—together they made the perfect blade. _That_ was who they were, and it was more comforting, _better_, than any gratitude on her part could ever be.

"Malfoy," she whispered nervously. Now that she was back in the present, she took stock of the situation and she desperately didn't want this to get out of hand. "_Malfoy_," she pushed.

"Shut up, Granger," he snapped.

"Aw, guess the Mudblood keeps a short leash, huh?"

Amycus was readying himself. Draco could see it. Hermione, Harry, Ron, Neville, and Blaise could see it too. Harry, Ron, and Neville prepared themselves to fight. Blaise prepared himself to _be_ prepared to fight. Theo in the back of the room prepared himself to slink away and out the door.

Hermione didn't know how to prepare herself to do something. It was like she'd forgotten whether or not she was the warrior in the room or the damsel in distress.

But she prided herself on being strong.

She was strong. She _was_. But she knew that Draco wouldn't want her fighting his battles. She knew he wouldn't appreciate her help, her intrusion. Instead, she prepared herself to apply as many healing charms as she could when this standoff was over.

Draco didn't need to prepare. After being trained by Bellatrix Lestrange herself, he'd earned his place among the ranks. After he'd taken the mark, he'd shown the depths of depravity to which he'd sink.

His heart slowed. The air around him caressed his skin softly. The frantic whispering faded into the distance.

He smiled.

_Crucio_. Dodge.

_Confringo_. Block.

_Expulso! Expulso! Expulso! _Dodge. Dodge. Block.

_Praefoco._ Block.

"Fight me!" Amycus thundered. But Draco only continued to smile.

The first lesson Bellatrix had taught Draco was that wars, battles, were fought mentally first. Once he could get into the head of his enemy, he'd already won. The second lesson was that the worst thing that he could be was predictable. Sadly, Amycus was _extremely_ predictable. The man had an almost pathological attachment to suffocation and torture, which meant that he'd always throw about _crucio _and _praefoco_.

_Crucio! Crucio! _Dodge. Dodge.

Hermione could only watch in stunned silence. This wasn't her husband. This couldn't be. The Draco Malfoy she knew was a sniveling prat that cried foul at every turn and wouldn't even meet Harry for a proper duel.

The Malfoy she knew cried in a bathroom, and hadn't been able to kill Dumbledore.

But he hadn't been that guy for a long time.

She needed to remember that.

She kept forgetting. She kept forgetting, and it was a very dangerous thing to do because the calculated and strong, _so strong_, soldier fighting against Amycus wasn't sniveling, crying foul, crying at all, and had killed plenty of times.

"Fight me! Fight me!" Amycus shouted crazily, and in that instant when he'd been yelling, tired of playing cat and mouse with Draco, Draco struck with the precision of someone who'd cast the curse a thousand times.

All that was heard was a "_Crucio"_ as soft as a gentle breeze from Draco's lips, and Amycus' screams bouncing off the walls.

His screams were like honey, and Draco let his shoulders, which had been so tense before, relax.

_Yes, yes. Scream. Scream for me._

Draco's _crucio_ didn't falter. It didn't waver in the slightest. He didn't need a mask or cloak. _Being_ a Death Eater was so much more than a brand on his forearm. It was ensnared into the very essence of who he was now, and though he was disgusted at the pleasure he felt at causing someone so much pain…he felt that pleasure fully, without restraint.

_Fuck, yes. More._

Sixty seconds were excruciatingly long when someone was screaming. It was too long.

_Please stop_, Hermione wanted to shout, but the words were stuck in her throat. Her tongue felt like it was made of heartbreak and sorrow—mouth too full of it to utter anything at all.

Most couldn't look. Many turned away with tears in their eyes, their figures trembling with so much emotion and fear. It didn't matter that Amycus would have done the same to one of them if given the chance. All that mattered were his screams, so raw, so powerful in their pain.

When Draco finally lifted the curse, Amycus' gasping, near breathless chuckle rippled and cracked as he slowly sat up from where his body had only moment ago thrashed on the floor.

"That's a _real_ _crucio_, class. Only a _true _Dark Wizard could cast something like that," he rasped, a dark smile upon his quivering lips, a dangerously satisfied glint in his eyes.

Draco's smile disappeared. The moment of euphoria evaporated. Hermione's gaze burned him, branded itself underneath his skin. His stomach felt like it was made of lead.

Carrow had won.

Draco might have won the fight, but Carrow had still won the dance.

* * *

"What are you doing, Malfoy?" Hermione practically attacked him as soon as he walked into the sanctity of their living quarters. "Are you absolutely mad? Or only slightly to attack a Professor?!"

"I'm not really in the mood to go ten rounds with you, Granger."

"I'm not your emotional punching bag!" Hermione shouted, her voice full of raw emotion. "Or your demented excuse to do horrible things! I'm not yours. Not like this. Not like we've been."

"Look me in the eye and tell me that you hate me for how I treat you," Draco walked to the tiny bar he'd had one of the house elves set up. She'd been furious when she saw it, but she couldn't help but note that whenever he had a drink, it took the edge off of his anger and bitterness. She'd been less angry after that. "Tell me you hate me for doing what your Weasel hadn't done. For doing _exactly_ as I say I'm going to do. Go ahead, Granger. Tell me."

"I hate you," Hermione said firmly. She meant it too. At least, she meant it now, in this moment that was so fleeting.

She always meant it, until she didn't.

"That's perfect," Draco barked out a dry humorless laugh. "Well, at least you'll be among good company with all the other Pureblood society wives. Didn't take long for you to fit right in, did it?"

"That's not what I want for us!" She cried out. She didn't walk towards him, and he didn't try to bridge the space, the _gap_ between them. "That's not what you should want for us, either."

He didn't reply, and she couldn't stay quiet. This needed to be said. Something had to give. _Anything_, really.

"My parents have always loved me deeply," Draco sighed with stormy eyes. "They might not be the best parents a bloke could ask for, but they love me. In their own ways they love me. But I don't think they ever truly loved each other. Not the way we like to think about love, anyway. They—it's hard for us. Malfoys. Blacks. To love. We don't do it well. _I_ don't do it well. Fuck, Pansy's proof of that if nothing else."

"You loved Pansy?"

"Thought I did, or at least I thought I could. But I don't know how to love, Granger. It's not something I ever learned."

"It's never too late to learn…"

"Don't patronize me, Granger," he stared icily. "You don't _learn_ how to love. If that were the case, then Dumbledore would've taught the Dark Lord when he was at Hogwarts for seven years."

"What do you want from me, then?" Hermione said harshly. They were toe to toe in this moment, neither willing to budge. "You can't just pull me closer when you feel like it and then shove me away, Malfoy! That's not how relationships work! That's not how _love_ works."

"I _don't_ love you."

She knew it was true, but it still irrationally hurt to hear it.

"This isn't about that and you know it!" Hermione said savagely. "You _crucio'd_ someone, a professor no less, in front of an entire classroom of people. You think they aren't going to write to their parents about it? You think they won't mention that when they go home for Christmas? You could be behind bars before the week is through!"

"Can't be _that_ unforgiveable if the fucker's asking students to perform it in class," he reasoned but Hermione simply pursed her lips, unconvinced. He rolled his eyes and scoffed nonchalantly, but it was a mask. He knew it, and so did she. "Relax, Granger. No one's arresting _me_. A lot's changed in a year—back at the end of fifth year, sure, but now? Now, if aurors want to come at me, they'll need a helluva lot more than a _crucio_ in class."

He leveled his steady gaze on her, watching for something he couldn't recognize in her eyes. He remembered how she always dug her nails into his skin when they fell in each other, and refused to let him go. He remembered how wonderfully she made him bleed, made him feel _everything_, good and bad.

He knew how easily hate turned into passion.

Hate towards her, towards Voldemort, even towards himself. It all meshed together in a ball of incomprehensible fury, until all he could do is expel it. Somehow. Someway. Through her. _Always through her_, and he could almost love her for letting him.

Almost.

But not today. Not now. Not when she couldn't accept who he truly was. Not when he wasn't sure he even wanted her to.

"I'm not a good guy," Draco whispered hauntingly. "I'm not a good guy, and I _told_ you that. I told you that I'd _never_ be a good guy. But you didn't believe me. You and your Gryffindor fucking thoughts convinced yourself that somewhere deep down I'm hiding a heart of gold. But I'm not. I'm not and that'll never change."

"I don't need you to be a good guy," Hermione rebutted with a shake of her head. But they both knew she was lying. Neither bothered to confront it, too tired and too recklessly wishing that things could be different. "But you have to reign it in—get it together. Get it together because both of our lives are riding on you, Malfoy. You're not alone any more, and you need to accept that."

"I'm not the one who has problems accepting herself," Draco glared. His fingers tightened on the glass, a sure sign that he was irritated. "You think I didn't notice that little episode you had during DADA? Yeah, guess you're not so perfect after all."

"I've never claimed to be perfect! But I'm not here to be your punching bag, Malfoy. And when you hurt people, even Professor Carrow, in my name—when you use _unforgivables_ in my name, it hurts. It hurts me, you know it does, but you don't care. You do it anyway. You did it anyway, today, and that's not okay."

"Get off your high horse, _princess_," Draco took a gulp of his brandy, and sneered with a roll of his eyes. He was so tired of Hermione's good auror-bad auror attitude that he could scream. "You think you treat me any better? Constantly comparing me to Saint Potter—don't even try to deny it—constantly wishing that I'd suddenly wake up and be a different man than the one you married? What happened, Granger? Surprised that people _don't fucking change_? You think I haven't noticed that you like to make me bleed? Thought I'd ignore the fact that every chance you get you draw blood? Yeah, _I'm the bad guy_ here but fuck you and that high horse you rode in on because from where I'm standing you treat me just as bad!"

They were at an impasse.

They both knew it.

It might never change, either.

But he didn't want to wake up for the next thirty years, look into her eyes, and see scorn. He didn't want that to be the rest of his life. But he wasn't sure how to come back from all that they were, all that they've always been really.

"You said you'd cherish me," Hermione looked away. She didn't want to seem weak. She didn't want to seem _needy_, but the words tumbled out of her without restraint. She was too tired for games. She was too tired for pretenses, though everything with him was like one endless boxing match. "You said you'd adore me, and _I hate you_ because I believed you. I believed you! I thought—I thought—"

Draco sipped at his drink, coolly observing her, but underneath it all he was withering because he wanted to. He wanted to cherish her. He wanted to adore her. He wanted to hold her up to the sky and bathe her in all the rays the magnificent sun has to offer, because she was the light. She was the light in this forever darkness.

But he didn't know how. He didn't know how.

_Merlin, don't let me ruin her_. But he knew it was already too late. It'd been too late the first time his lips had pressed themselves against hers, so painfully sweet.

"If you'd stop fighting me for _one second_, you'd see that I'm not just yours," she stood and walked over to him as though she were approaching a wounded and nearly rabid animal. Perhaps she was. She stopped in front of him, and let him see her heart. "We belong to _each other_."

These words weren't said in a haze of lust; they were strong and firm. _Truth_, _even when it was scary._

_We belong to each other._

Warriors have brought down kingdoms with the strength of their fists; Hermione Granger only needed the truth, and enough bravery to say it.

"_Fuck_, you really are a Gryffindor," Draco groaned out as though he were being tortured. He swallowed the rest of his drink in one full sweep, carelessly sat the glass back on the bar, and cupped her face with both hands. "But _I'm not_, Granger. _I'm not_."

His lips descended on hers like hellhounds on a soul.

It was the nectar of heaven, and Hermione was as spellbound as always, but there was something different—_desperate_—about his kiss that made her want to savor it.

But she couldn't. This wasn't them. Not really. Not if she wanted to be his equal, and not just his wife. But she couldn't stop either. Like magic _of the best kind_, he moaned into her mouth, and Hermione was lost.

They were hands, teeth, _deep_, and rough. Their clothes were inconveniences that he _evanesco_'d away like an irritating bug. Their bodies collided with the bed that would tell stories of the most intimate kind if it could talk.

They attacked each other with hisses and moans, constantly a second away from breaking. From growing. From spinning out of control.

But they'd never been in control, had they? Not when, unbidden, Hermione whispered "I love you" frantically just because she knew Draco liked to hear it. Not when Draco told her to "scratch me harder" as he groaned his passion just because he knew she liked to make him bleed.

Every nerve in Hermione's body was quaking. She wanted to drown in Draco's arms. She could feel that he wanted to drown in hers too, convinced somewhere that if only he drove into her deeper, harder, that he could find some sort of communion.

Draco, somewhere between the fights and the apathy that changed shape like a caterpillar transformed into a butterfly, convinced himself that that Hermione could make his soul _right_, if only he could make her happy.

With his blood, his passion, his ferocity in _everything_, he tried. He tried with his lips because this was the only way he thought he truly could make her happy.

Finally, _finally_, as they climbed down from the ladder of infiniteness, she understood what he'd known all along: they didn't make love when their bodies merged in heat and life, they made _madness_.

They made madness; Hermione sat up as she watched as Draco stood, retrieved his glass, added two more fingers of scotch, and took a gulp from it—yeah, they made madness, and there was nothing on this Earth like it.

Who needed to make love, when making madness felt so much more everlasting? When in the middle of the day, she could still feel him imbedded inside of her, under her skin, stamped onto her very soul.

But his profile was too somber for a man who'd clung to euphoria until Hermione had been twitching and mewling keenly. His shoulders were too tense for a man that had whispered, "don't let me go, Granger" and "_fuck_, never gonna let you go." His mouth was too downtrodden for a man who hadn't had to urge her to say "I love you" ardently this time around while in the throes of desire.

"What's wrong?" she kissed him with her eyes. "Really?"

He turned back to her, eyes cloudy like a tornado from lust and resignation. He walked back to the bed and sat next to her, left leg crossed over his right knee at the ankle, one hand gripping his glass of scotch like a lifeline, the other raising to touch her face.

"The new Supreme Mugwump is trying…" Draco hesitated, his thumb brushing her cheek lightly. Her stomach fluttered deliciously, like it used to with Ron, and Victor. Innocently. He didn't want to hurt her, not like this. Not when it was out of his control. But she was strong, he knew. She'd have to be, to live the rest of her life as a Malfoy. "He's pushing a Muggle-born Registration Law through the Wizengamot court."

"_What_?"

"It hasn't passed yet," he tried to console her.

"What does that even entail? You're not going to be _for_ it, are you?"

His hand dropped. They could feel the gulf between them enlarging as they breathed.

"It entails various things, only one of which is Muggle-born witches and wizards having to fill out a sheet declaring themselves to the ministry as Muggle-born."

"Are you going to be _for_ it?" Hermione pushed. This was one question Draco wouldn't be able to sidestep. His silence was enough. "_You monster!_"

"I can't be _against_ it, Granger," Draco reasoned, as he grasped her firmly by the forearms while she struggled to push him away, glass of liquor forgotten as it fell from his hand to the floor. "How would that look, one of the Dark Lord's own voting _against_ the law?"

"How could you?" she screamed at him. Tears flooded her eyes, but she hated him in this moment too much to let him see her cry. "How could you? Are you so heartless that this _crime_ would sit so easy with you? Do you even know where this leads? Because it might start with a simple registration law that looks harmless, but it'll end in genocide. _You know_ this is just a way to track all the muggle-borns in Great Britain."

"_Pick your battles_, Granger," Draco growled, face red over the exertion of trying to tame her. But man never could tame lions. Surprisingly, neither could Dragons that burned everything in their path. "You would have me fight against the law, but to what end? What end, Granger? Because the Supreme Mugwump is pushing this through—very few people on the Wizengamot are going to go against it once he's done blackmailing, and bribing."

"The Light side has supporters—"

"Yes," Draco interrupted with a sever scowl, and a deep sadness in his heart for being the one to trample over her idealism. "The Light might have supporters, but they're not infallible. They are as human as you and I, and they can be blackmailed and bribed like anyone else. The ideologies of some, _bloody hell_, maybe most, may lie with the Order, but just because they believe in a cause doesn't mean they're willing to risk their families for it. Everyone remembers all the families that went missing—just disappeared—in the middle of the night during the first war...I won't let that be us."

Somewhere in the middle of his diatribe, Hermione had calmed down enough to stop shoving at him. But her eyes still shined suspiciously.

It tore at him. _She_ tore at him, _viciously_.

"I'll do what I can, Granger," Draco promised. "I'll _always_ do what I can."

She nodded stiffly, "Please let me go."

"Anything but that," he denied her seriously. He meant it physically, but he also meant it in every way possible. Hermione could hear the layered meaning in the severity of his voice.

"_Please_," Hermione pleaded as the tears started to fall. Her heart felt heavy, broken, in this world that had once held so much promise. _Please_: she was begging him for so many things that she knew he would never be and never give her.

"I can't," Draco admitted huskily as he drew her into a rough embrace. It was an admission of the worst kind. Or maybe of the best kind because Hermione couldn't help but let out a choked sob filled with empathy—she knew how he felt because she felt it too. "I can't let you go, not anymore. So don't ask impossible things of me."

_Don't ask impossible things of me. _

But they both knew she would. It was just a matter of time.

* * *

A.N – Soo, intense right? What do you guys think? Love it? Hate it? Let me know and Review! **Reviews are love**


	9. The Battle Lines of the Weary

Disclaimer – I own nothing.

A/N – So, it's the middle of the night and my life is super crazy right now, and I thought you guys might prefer an update right now instead of waiting an extra few days for the update but with all the shout outs.

Instead, I'll just say that I love you all and thanks a million for all of you who followed, favorited, and reviewed. Honestly, I reread all of those reviews about a thousand times while I write a chapter, sometimes for motivation and other times just to make me smile so THANK YOU.

A special thanks to **ellesjourney** for beta'ing this chapter and making a beautiful banner for this story which you can find on my tumblr if you'd care to see it.

Anywho, hope everyone enjoys!

_/Be false to say I'll walk away then when I'm constantly this close to breakin'_

_Maybe I've been going too deep for too long_

_Maybe when it's feeling so right it's too wrong/_

-Too Deep, Ritual

Chapter 9 – The Battle Lines of the Weary

Draco liked to picture what a child with Hermione would look like sometimes. Would it be a boy with his perfect hair and her cinnamon eyes? Or would it be a little girl with her wild hair and his argent eyes? Sometimes he felt brave, and mixed the image: a little boy with wild hair as wild as his mother's spirit, and a little girl with gracefully long blonde hair and cocoa eyes. It was a strange, yet comforting thought that Draco clung to as waves of _crucio_ broke down his carefully constructed walls to defend pain.

"You're still too weak," the Dark Lord gazed upon him in disgust.

_Too weak_.

It was always a test with Voldemort. A constant test—was he fast enough, strong enough, smart enough? Draco wasn't sure if he ever really passed, but he definitely knew when he'd failed.

"I'll try harder, m'lord," Draco rasped as he tried to control the spasms gripping him. He knew he must look disheveled in a way that rankled his Malfoy pride.

"_Try harder_," Voldemort sneered. "I don't want you to _try,_ you fool! I want you to _do_."

His words were harsh, but, through the brutality and pain, he built Draco up slowly. _So slowly_, Draco felt the difference. Sometimes in a good way, sometimes in a bad way.

"Why is this so hard for you?" Voldemort asked him, assessing him quietly, power radiating off him as though he'd been born wielding it.

That was the trick with the Dark Lord—he pierced those around him effortlessly.

"I can't separate the pain," Draco admitted shamefully, because he might hate Voldemort, but that was still his _Lord_, and he wanted to make him proud. It was sick, and twisted, but he wanted to live up to the idea of him that Voldemort had in his head.

The honest _potential_ that the Dark Lord saw in him.

"The pain _isn't real_," Voldemort explained with a severe scowl. His robes billowed around him, pushed by the Dark Lord's magic in the air. "No one is _touching_ you—those knives you feel are a product of your own mind."

"But _your_ magic is real, and _that's_ touching me," Draco rebutted automatically, tired from being tortured and frustrated at his own failure.

It was a mistake. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew it was a mistake—

His body thrashed as it lifted at an uncomfortable angle, pain sinking into the very core of him. He could do this. _He could_.

_Too weak._

But he wasn't too weak. He wasn't.

Hermione's face lifted the haze of torment for a few moments. They were moments of infiniteness, quite like when he reached euphoria with her, connected by their bodies and very souls. Her eyes that always reminded him of spice looked at him softly, sadly.

It shook him, but he tried to hold on. _Damn it_, he tried to hold on because she was _Granger_ and _his_. But the pain was pushing through—it was overwhelming the peace she could bring him in moments like these.

_Too weak._

_I love you. _

He tried to remember the exact tone of her voice as she said it without being prompted. But the _crucio_ was latching on, swirling and clamping down onto his arms. He was at war inside of himself—_it's not real, it's not real. _But _fuck_ it felt so real. It felt _too_ real—and suddenly he was drowning, and Hermione's eyes were gone.

All that was left was an echo of _I love you_. Just enough to hold onto his sanity.

"Better." Voldemort nodded curtly.

_Better_, but not _good_.

"We'll meet again in three days, after the vote," Voldemort dismissed him simply by showing Draco his back. That was something Draco had learned early on—Voldemort absolutely _hated_ giving simple commands; he felt ("_bloody irrationally_" Antonin Dolohov constantly muttered) that his loyal subjects should understand his will. Voldemort turned back slightly, looked over his shoulder, and stared icily at him, his red soulless eyes searching his own. "I can assume you know which way to vote," he said condescendingly.

"Of course, m'lord," Draco humored him, his eyes downcast.

Voldemort moved gracefully to his make-shift throne in the Malfoy Manor ballroom, and Draco knew it was time to leave.

_I love you, I love you, I love you_—it was a staccato that beat in his head in tandem with the beats of his heart as he left in a swirl of smoke and darkness, towards Hogwarts and his wife.

* * *

Hermione sat quietly next to Ron by the hearth in the Gryffindor common room. The first couple of weeks of October chilled the castled slightly, and they were grateful for the added heat. It was the first time they'd spent any real time alone, just the two of them.

Both Hermione and Ron had been so sure that the second they had any lengthy time alone, Ron would say something, _anything_. Really, out of the two, Ron had been practically _begging_ Merlin for the right moment to ask her all the questions that'd been plaguing him at night. He'd wanted to know why she hadn't believed in them. He'd wanted to ask her what Malfoy had that he couldn't give her besides money. He'd wanted to know whether or not she was _truly_ happy, if she laughed much without him.

And when all was said and done, he'd wanted to tell her that there would never be a girl he believed in more than her. He'd wanted to divulge to her that she'd crushed some innocent part of him that had always believed that the good guys always won. He'd wanted to expose all of himself to her, down to the very core of who he'd always been, and tell her that he would never _see_ another girl, not like he'd seen her, not like how he had been _so damn sure_ that she'd seen him.

But when the moment came, and the silence settled in between the crackling of the fireplace, Ron couldn't find any of the words. He could only bask in the heat that her body emanated, and the peace that he found by her side.

Hermione smiled sadly at him, understanding and yet not understanding at all.

"I miss you, too," Hermione whispered honestly as though Ron had spoken.

Maybe he had. Maybe his silence were all the words he'd needed with his lifelong friend. She meant it, too. She missed the simplicity of always knowing what he wanted, and what he was thinking.

Ron parted his lips to speak words they'd both been waiting to hear out loud.

"Hey guys," Harry walked through the portrait door, interrupting a moment that had been both running away from them like a rushing river, and running towards them like a horse stampede.

His emerald eyes were bright with excitement and purpose. Hermione and Ron sat up straighter—as though Harry's presence _zapped_ something yearning for an adventure inside of them. He quickly sat down, and cast a _muffliato_ around them.

"What's happened?" Hermione asked as soon as the spell was cast.

She wanted to frown at the use of a spell from _that book_—the one that had been filled with dark curses, the one that had almost been the cause for Draco's death. But now wasn't the moment for that. Frankly, considering how she'd been toeing the line between right and wrong lately, she didn't think there'd ever be a time for that anymore.

"Snape pulled me aside," Harry jumped right in. It felt like old times, before marriage laws, before Hermione had married Draco. The could all feel it, and it was nice in the way few things seemed to be anymore. "At first I thought he was just being a bloody menace like usual, eh, but when we were alone he told me that there's an order meeting in four days-Sunday. We can't all go—that'd be way too suspicious for all of us to be absent from breakfast and lunch, especially with the Carrows running around, but at least one of us can go."

No one spoke, the reality of the statement sinking in. Only one could safely go.

"It should be you, Harry," Hermione said with an encouraging half smile. "You need to know what's going on—you can just tell us about it."

"She's right," Ron nodded in agreement, though his gaze lingered on Hermione a second too long. It hurt sometimes to look at her, but it hurt more to look away. "If I show up my mum's bound to start fussing. The bloody woman's barmy now with the war creeping closer."

"The war's _been_ here," Harry pursed his lips in slight ire, though he knew it wasn't Ron's fault that the adults around them didn't want to face the fact that the wizarding world had been in a cold war for a long time, and the Order was losing. "But are you guys sure? You've got just as much right to be there as me…"

"We're sure," Hermione assured him in that comforting way that she'd learned in second year. It was the benefit of knowing someone for so long, and caring about them so deeply—she'd learned a long time ago how to comfort Harry, and when he needed comforting. "There are a few things I'll want you to pass on to the Order, but I can just tell you before you head out."

"Oh?"

It was a simple sound. It didn't have to mean much. But it did. She could hear the judgement in it. She could understand the wariness in the tone of Harry's voice.

"Anything worth knowing now?" Harry pushed, his eyes as steady as an artist's hands.

Ron was quiet, but there was something in his eyes that told her she could slaughter an entire ward of newborn babies, and he'd still say that she must have had a good reason. Harry, sadly, didn't have that sort of blind faith in her—not when he remembered how ruthless Hermione could be when she was protecting someone she loved. When she'd been protecting Harry.

Harry hoped she didn't love Malfoy, yet. He hoped she'd never love Malfoy more than him…but he couldn't be sure.

_Anything worth knowing now?_

She'd spent so much of her life telling Harry and Ron every detail, explaining the pains and the progress, the ups and the downs, being in this war _together_, that now it felt so strange to have to pause before she spoke.

She'd spent so much of her life putting Harry first, even before herself, that she wasn't used to _not_ doing so. Even so, she let the smooth October air sink into her bones, and strengthen her resolve. She'd talk to Draco first, and _then_ talk to the Order. Not a second before. Not until she was _absolutely sure_ that she wasn't putting his life in danger.

_Anything worth knowing now?_

"No," Hermione shook her head, and lied while a piece of her heart was breaking for the girl who'd loved Harry Potter, best friend extraordinaire, for so long, so deeply, that she'd made her entire life about him. "Nothing worth knowing just yet."

* * *

That night Draco and Hermione lay in bed, quiet; Hermione was on her back, while Draco was on his side, next to her, _always_ next to her. Their breaths were little puffs as they calmed their heartbeats, and remembered to exist by themselves, disengaged and _divided_—without Draco's rhythm inside of her, and Hermione's nails digging into him.

It was one of those nights that felt as though it would last an eternity.

Sometimes Hermione hated that feeling. She felt as though it lulled her into a false sense of security in their relationship—convinced her that they really were the only two in the world.

But sometimes Hermione yearned for that feeling like a man in the desert for water. She felt as though they were more connected than ever—convinced that it meant something when Draco held her just _that much_ tighter, and wouldn't look away from her.

Tonight was a mixture of both. A paradise inside of a hell wrapped around midnight blue sheets made of wishes, hopes, and struggling optimism.

"When I was a little boy," Draco whispered; he could pretend that she was sleeping when they were this silent, exhausted from their passion that never seemed to end. "I used to cry a lot. I was a spoilt little shit who didn't understand why my horse couldn't come eat dinner with us, or why I couldn't keep the dog I'd found in the street, despite the fact it had fleas, and I'd already started to itch—" he let out a deep chuckle.

"You sound like every other kid," Hermione responded just as quietly. They were in a bubble, and they were too afraid that it would pop, leaving them to free fall helplessly.

"I was _never_ like every other kid," he ran his fingers over her arms like little sprinkles of fairy dust.

_Merlin_, everything he did always felt like the sweetest torture. _More, more_. But she was already spent, and knew he was too. Right now was about so much more. She knew by the sadness coating his words.

"Every time I'd cry," he continued, "my parents would say 'you're a dragon, Draco. Dragons are stronger than that,' or '_Malfoy's _don't cry, Draco. It's _horribly common_'…I was always trying to play catch up—trying to live up to this image of _Dragons_ and _Malfoys_."

"What are you trying to live up to now?"

The silence returned like the _tick tock_ of a clock forbidden lovers wished would stop forever.

"_Fuck_, Granger," Draco leaned his forehead against hers, his voice gruff. He was the epitome of a man torn and conflicted by truths he'd never shared with her. "You can't look at me like that—with so much hope, because I'm going to disappoint you."

"You didn't answer the question," Hermione whispered, sidestepping his comment just like he'd side-stepped her question. They both knew he _was_ going to disappoint her eventually, and he _wasn't_ going to answer her question. She sighed, "I feel like a broken record—always asking you to let me in."

"I thought that's why you married me," he smirked. "Because you like a challenge."

"Be careful there, _husband_," Hermione raised an eyebrow, trying to hide how her breath hitched; that happened sometimes, suddenly, unexpectedly, when she was caught off guard by his beauty and the intensity of wanting him so. "Your ego might get so big that it'll stop being able to fit in the bed with us."

"I better buy a new bed, huh?" Draco's smirk grew as his lips made a trail south—over her breasts where he sucked, over her smooth and flat stomach where he nipped, and over the tiny bud of electricity that gave _so much pleasure_ where he licked. Once. Twice.

_Fuck, yes_.

Hermione moaned throatily, her hands sliding through his hair and pulling him closer—drowning him between her legs.

_Don't stop. _

_Yes, yes, yes. _

_Merlin, just like that. _

Draco's tongue lapped at her like a dog in heaven. He went slow, _so fucking slow_ that Hermione arched her back and moaned her frustration, frantically moving her hips against his lips to make up the pace. He went fast, _yes, yes, yes_, so fast that Hermione laid completely still, body enjoying the tremors that paralyzed her.

_Please, please. _

Her pleading and begging for a release that was _so close_ was more than Draco could take and his tongue slipped lower, and inside of her. He wanted to taste her, to consume her and be consumed by her—the taste of her. His finger followed after him, rubbing circles _just there_ at the same pace as his tongue dipped in and out.

Hermione's hand in his hair never let up, pulling him into her so roughly that he could barely breathe at times, and it made him smile, even as his tongue never stopped its steady tempo of _in, out, in, out, in, deeper, out_.

Her juices started to flow freely, and Draco was a man in the greatest level of heaven, surrounded by the nectar of her passion, _fucking drowning _in it.

_Come for me, Granger. _

He watched her as her as she peaked.

There was nothing better, _sweeter_, than _his wife_ coming undone, and suffocating him with the strength of her thighs—nothing short of dying bathed in her glory.

The afterglow of being thoroughly pleasured by Draco left Hermione with a small smile on her face. Draco, saw this smile, and couldn't help his own smirk which grew smugly, his lips and chin coated with her orgasm.

Hermione saw the self-satisfied and arrogant grin on his face, and scowled. "Don't be too pleased with yourself."

"I didn't say a word, Granger" Draco went on his knees taking Hermione's leg with him, and playfully nipped at her toes.

"You didn't _have_ to," she looked at him pointedly.

Draco smiled wolfishly, then threw her leg over, and successfully turned Hermione onto her stomach in one swift movement; his hand _swooshed_ the air and landed on her backside with a quick and loud _SMACK_. Hermione moaned throatily and lifted her backside, silently begging for more. He palmed the cheek he'd just smacked as he straightened out over her, his manhood probing her entrance.

"Think you've got it in you for one more round?" he said huskily in her ear.

She wanted to say yes. _Gods, she wanted to say yes_. But they'd barely spoken today—not about anything that'd been plaguing her, like the fact that there was an Order meeting in three days.

"Yes, but—" she started, but as soon as she'd said _yes_, Draco had slithered inside of her. He froze at the "_but_."

"But?" he leaned his body weight on his forearms.

This wasn't fevered and explosive like they tended to be. No, he was patient. He could spend all night in this position, without moving, bathing in the feeling of being surrounded by Hermione's heat.

They were connected, and it was beautifully filling in _so many ways_.

"But—" Hermione swallowed a moan as her body inadvertently shuddered in response to being so full of him. "_But_, we have to talk first."

"So _talk_," Draco said mischievously. It was endearing, and Hermione sort of hated him for it. She wanted to be serious!

"_Like this?!_" Hermione said wide-eyed, appalled, her face laying on its left cheek on the silky pillow. It was comfortable, which was even more annoying, because she didn't want to be comfortable. She didn't want to feel aroused, and fulfilled, and _so damn good_.

"Would you prefer like _this_?" Draco purred and bit the junction between her neck and shoulder roughly, as he moved slowly inside of her. _Fuck, fuck, fuck. _

_Focus_.

But it was so hard when Draco could make her feel like chocolate dipped strawberries.

"I think," Hermione gasped, her fingers clenching the sheets by either side of her head tightly, "We're better the other way."

"What way?" Draco feigned ignorance. "This way?" he removed himself to the tip and plunged all the way in, Hermione's lust filled keening bouncing off the walls, and froze again—completely sheathed inside of her.

This was going to be the longest conversation in history, Hermione was sure.

"I hate you so much right now," Hermione whined, as she unconsciously moved against his hips to settle him deep inside of her.

"Tell me something I don't know," Draco kissed her shoulder gently, _so gently_. "What do we _absolutely _need to talk about _now_?"

His forearms were solid on either side of her, next to her fingers by her face. She should feel trapped, but she didn't. She wished that they could be in this same position more often, if only to feel so secure.

"Maybe we should have this conversation later," Hermione rolled her eyes at the preposterousness of the situation. Though she couldn't help the small smile that graced her lips, and lit up her eyes.

"Oh no," Draco kissed her neck, and right under her ear, his own eyes alive for her. "You wanted to talk, so talk."

Hermione sighed, "There's an Order meeting in a few days."

Draco's lips stopped their torturous journey. His eyes bore into the side of her face.

"Tell me we didn't just bring the war into bed with us," he grumbled.

His complaint was valid, but it was tearing at Hermione, and in bed seemed to be the only time they could really talk without things flying off the handle.

"_Malfoy_," Hermione urged, her body clenching around him to gain his complete focus—and _boy_ did it. Draco groaned automatically, and rotated his hips.

"_Fuck, Granger_," he hissed. "Get on with it then, so I can ravish you to an inch within your life."

Hermione let out a breathy laugh, but quickly refocused. "What do you think? About the Order meeting?"

"Will you skip it if I tell you to?"

"No," Hermione responded truthfully. It didn't matter that she technically _wasn't_ going; she knew how fast things could change—Harry need only get detention and she'd take his spot. "But tell me what you think, anyway. Isn't that what married people do? Talk to each other about these types of things."

"Are we those people now?"

"_Yes_," she arched her back so she could turn her head more and look at him somewhat properly. She didn't want him to doubt it. She didn't want to doubt it, either. This, if nothing else, would stand clear with them right here and now. "We're _those_ married people—whether you like it or not, Malfoy."

Draco's arms trembled a bit, at the pressure and exertion of holding the position, and _not_ moving within her like he so craved. Because, _damn it_, he craved her _so bad, so right, fucking every way possible_.

"I think it's a bad idea," he sighed, and licked his lips. "I think they're just using you to confirm what they've probably learned from other sources—you're just more reliable. They can't actually expect you to give them any _new_ information. You're not imbedded enough with the Death Eaters for that."

"Maybe," she bit her lower lip in thought. "But we both knew that I'd tell them things—help the Order any way I could. You knew that when we first agreed to get married."

"So what are you asking me?"

"I'm asking you if I know anything that could lead back to you."

There. She'd said what she truly meant. No masks. No hidden agendas. In this moment, even if another one like it didn't come around for another six months or six years, she'd said _exactly_ what she meant, and he knew it, too.

Her honesty was rewarded with a lingering kiss to the side of her mouth, and his own truth.

"You already know about the Ganish, Wentworth, and Pembrook families, which is pretty safe for me…" He paused and assessed her for a moment before he whispered, "I've been training with the Dark Lord. He's been pushing me more lately, but he's been sending out more people to the outskirts of Romania. He's gotten enough of a foothold in Bulgaria that his Death Eaters there make the trip instead of any of us based in Great Britain."

"How close is he to taking over Bulgaria?"

"Close."

The silence didn't matter because they were husband and wife. Truly, now. They were united by their secrets and their loyalty to each other, despite the hate and resentment that can bubble and fester between them so easily. In spite of the fire that always condemned them, they _felt_ married.

It was the scariest feeling in the world.

"How many people know this?" Hermione asked, worry coating the lust in her eyes.

"_Not enough_," he growled as he began to move, effectively ending the conversation. But he'd said all that he'd needed to say.

_Not enough people knew so that he'd be above suspicion if she told the Order._

Now the decision was in her hands—to condemn him, but prove _truly_ useful to the Light's cause, or to save him, and let the chips fall where they may.

She knew that he wouldn't have told her unless he had at least multiple contingency plans in place to secure his safety and standing in the ranks. But it was still a risk. A significant risk.

He was seeing what she was made of.

Hermione felt his pace change, his length urging against her walls, and knew that he was jittery. Draco's moment of playfulness had evaporated, and what was left were the countless demons that were never too far away.

But he knew she'd already orgasmed a few times tonight, and he didn't want to take her too hard; he didn't want to give her more than she could bear.

He was surprisingly a considerate lover, which was in complete contrast to how demanding he always seemed to be. Hermione knew it was for her benefit, but she was so moved that he'd trust her enough to _share_, that she found herself gasping, "Harder."

_Harder._

He didn't ask if she was sure. He knew she was strong. He knew she wouldn't have said so if she couldn't handle it. She was a Malfoy now.

Hermione pushed back against him, frantically rotating and grinding her hips against him. Draco lifted his hands. _SMACK, SMACK_, he spanked her as he drove into her mercilessly.

_Harder. _

_Deeper._

_Yes, yes, yes. _

_This is yours, Malfoy. All yours. _

She knew he needed to hear it. She could feel it in the way his thrusts were uncontrolled, as though he were trying to make sure she never forgot the feel of him. She knew she wouldn't, but he needed to know it, too.

Her body convulsed, satisfied in that way that left her wailing in rhapsody and trying to muffle it by biting into the pillow. _Shit, they forgot to reapply the silencing charm_.

But neither were willing to stop now.

His hands were soft as they dug and wrapped themselves into her wild mane of curls. He tugged lightly, and Hermione almost sobbed in bliss. _SMACK, SMACK, SMACK_, he spanked her again, and heaven couldn't have anything that felt better than being possessed by Draco Malfoy. It wasn't possible. Couldn't be, Hermione was so damn sure.

"Tell me," Draco rasped savagely, completely submerged in the enchantment of her, of _them_.

Hermione knew what he wanted, and for the first time she wasn't ashamed to want to say it either. Her hands blindly searched for his own, one hand reaching backwards and latching onto the back of his neck, pulling him closer to which he didn't resist—_couldn't _resist, because he was_ hers_, and the other grasping onto his right hand, and latching it onto her breast. "_I love you. I love you, fuck, Draco, just like that—just like that—I love you."_

His hand kneaded her breast, holding onto it as though he'd crumble without it in his palm. Hermione held onto that hand, pushing it into her breast without thought.

Everything was _too much_, and _not enough_. Everything was _forever_ and fleeting.

Finally, with desperate prayers to Merlin, a feral _you're mine, Granger, _an even wilder _all yours, Malfoy, always_—because something primal inside of them needed to say it and hear it too, Hermione clenched down around him, and didn't stop. She fell off the edge of the universe with Draco right behind her, right there _with her_, a constant _yes, yes, yes_ on her lips, and _fuck, fuck, so tight, so fucking tight_ on his.

The beauty of ecstasy was theirs as Draco's body went limp on top of her. He went to move off her, but she didn't let go of his neck, still twitching beneath him, on him, as the waves of rapture continued to assault her; she liked the weight of him on her, like a constant reminder that they were linked by choice.

"You've bewitched me," he whispered, letting all of his weight fall on her, too tired to hold himself.

"I _am_ a witch," she responded quietly, body slowly settling, though still jerking every few seconds.

Finally, when his weight was too much, she bucked underneath him a bit in a silent demand. He moved, sliding out of her, and lay on his back. She didn't move until her body stopped jerking completely, and Draco only watched her in quiet intoxication, his head perched on his pillow.

When she moved, he dragged her body to his, and engulfed her in his embrace.

_I _am_ a witch_.

It echoed around his head, as she closed her eyes, head on his smooth chest, and slumbered.

_I _am_ a witch. _

_You've bewitched me_.

He thought about her fire, and hope. He thought about her _life_ and passion. He thought about how she was the only thing holding him back from insanity when he was under the Dark Lord's _crucio_.

_I love you_.

_I'm yours._

_I _am _a witch. _

"Yeah, Granger" he whispered to her, though she was too engrossed in her dreams to hear him. "You _are_ a witch…of the most dangerous kind."

With that he closed his eyes, and let sleep claim him—his last thought being, '_did she say Draco?'_

* * *

The next day came complete with birds chirping and Autumn leaves falling. After waking, Draco and Hermione went their separate ways. Every now and again they'd catch a glimpse of each other in class or across the Great Hall. Their gazes would lock, and Draco would ruthlessly ravish her with his eyes, watching as Hermione's face would go bright red—she'd glance around to ensure that no one was watching, and then surreptitiously gaze back at him with lust.

It was practically _scandalous _the way Draco could make her feel in public; she loved it, how high she'd feel while walking solidly on the ground; she hated how quickly he could make her lose her sense of self-control.

Following lunch, Luna and Hermione wandered off the library, Luna muttering the whole time about wrackspurts, whatever the hell those were. The girls disappeared around the corner, leaving Draco and Theo in a surprisingly empty corridor.

They were _never_ alone anymore. Not since they'd taken their seats on the Wizengamot.

Now, every other step was "oh, Draco, how funny bumping into you—let's walk to lunch together. By the way, did I mention that my cousin's been trying to get the inspection passed on that new boner potion?" or "Theo, I didn't know you walk this way everyday—I'll walk you to your class! Did I tell you that my aunt's been trying to get the _ding-dong_ situation moved over from the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee to the Obliviator Headquarters? Been having a devil of a time, you know."

Everyone wanted something, and everyone was convinced that Draco and Theo were in a prime position to give it to them—if they cared to, which (unless it benefited them somehow) they _didn't_.

"It's so quiet," Draco joked. It felt nice, like they could pretend they were in third year again before everything had changed.

"Don't jinx us!" Theo looked around them as though people would jump out from the shadows asking for favors.

Draco laughed, and Theo laughed with him. They were the picture of youth unburdened…if only for a moment.

But their laughter cut short as they saw someone walk past. Even when they were alone, they weren't really alone.

It was absurd, and yet, in a war torn era like the one they lived in, it wasn't without malice.

"So, _Saturday_," Theo queried gently. He wanted to know, but he didn't want to ask—not in case anyone could overhear them.

"Yeah," Draco nodded slightly, understanding Theo's unasked question. "I told Granger about it a couple weeks ago."

"I'm going to hazard a guess, and say she didn't take it well."

"Psh," Draco scoffed. "Not taking it well would be the understatement of the century. But she hasn't brought it up since. The bleedin' girl likes to throw about words like 'justice,' 'fairness,' and 'equality' like they're going out of style—but on this? Not a peep."

"Well, then she's better than Luna," Theo grimaced. "She's been bringing it up ever since I told her! Oh, don't give me that look—you know damn well, I wouldn't bloody give a damn if she were singing in a tutu about Spinning Crowdiplunks—_don't ask_—but she's got this _way_ of talking and bringing it up. She never really actually outright says anything, but she _implies_. She's talking about nargles one second and the next I get the distinct impression she's making an analogy to _this_."

"I think I might prefer that," Draco responded amusedly. "Granger's silence on the subject speaks more than anything she could've actually said. I can practically _feel_ when her thoughts turn to the subject, and she just gives me that _look_, y'know?"

"Oh, _I_ _know_ the look."

"Yeah, so sad—"

"So disappointed—"

"Clearly wishing you'd do something—"

"Which just makes it all worse because you know you _won't!_"

They shared a look that was simultaneously entertained, and saddened.

"Are we _really_ going to do nothing though?" Theo couldn't help but ask.

"Since when did you become self-sacrificing?" Draco raised an elegant eyebrow in disbelief.

"I'm not!" Theo said appalled. "Just…she's going to be my wife one of these days—it's bad form to start a marriage with the girl hating me."

"Have you fucked her?"

"Oi! None of your bloody business!"

They shoved at each other roughly, and good-naturedly. This was shoptalk, typical questions and answers that boys trying so hard to be men had to say; but disguised in it all was a truth that was hard to swallow: they didn't want Hermione or Luna to be sad.

They weren't what many in the wizarding world would consider "good" people. They'd never be good people, not in that godawful self-sacrificing Gryffindor sort of way. They weren't _raised_ to be good people. But they aspired to be good husbands. Kind. Even gentle on occasion. And though they couldn't care less about the countless Muggle-born strangers out in the world that would be effected by this law, they did care about their wives. They, selfishly, didn't want them to be sad.

_Lucius had walked into the sitting room with a noticeably missing swagger that he'd always carried, and plopped himself most disgracefully on the couch in front of the fireplace. _

_Theo, who spent far too much time in Malfoy Manor, had noticed a stale air that wasn't usually present, and had wisely stopped talking. _

_Blaise, too, had perceived something off about his godfather and had stopped trying to stain the unstainable rug in the corner. Blaise, Theo, and Draco had been pretending they were pirates sailing the stormy seas, battling against each other—each, naturally, a captain of their own vessel._

_Draco, however, could only ever see his father, king of the whole universe, and hadn't been able to tell that something was amiss. Instead of taking the cue from Theo and Blaise, Draco on the contrary, had gone sailing at his father with a battle cry. _

_Lucius, with a broody look, had simply waived his wand, effectively immobilizing all three boys (though Theo and Blaise hadn't been moving) and floated them to him in a straight line, settling them at his feet. _

_Draco had finally realized that something was wrong, and quickly tried to jut out his lips in a cute pout meant to make the man forget about whatever he and his friends had done wrong. _

_His Slytherin nature from such a young age could almost make a father proud—but not that day. He sat stiffly, barely containing his rage. The floo had opened suddenly, and out stepped Severus Snape, signature flowing and austere-looking cloak about him. _

_Snape had taken in the boys seated at Lucius' feet, and raised a mocking eyebrow. "Have you started a harem?" _

"_Do you boys know where Narcissa is right now?" Lucius had asked deceptively innocent. _

_The boys had wanted to answer, but they couldn't shake their head. Snape's only answer had been a strange downshift of his lips, which in Snape-speak was code for a resounding "no." _

_Nonetheless, Lucius had already known the answer. That was the trick with Lucius Malfoy: one had to always be afraid when the man asked a question, because he rarely asked one without already knowing the answer, and an agenda in mind. But they were too young to know that then. Snape, however, wasn't. _

"_She, the _lovely_, _elegant, gentle creature that she is,_ is at Madame Petit in France buying everything in sight!" Lucius had snarled. _

_Though the children weren't to blame for this, they'd quivered inside of themselves; they were no strangers to their own respective fathers' anger. Theo's father was known to be cruel, and could lose himself in Muggle discipline—the belt was his favorite. Blaise's current father at the time had considered it character building to be punished at least once a week—though the man had a horrible habit of forgetting to lift the _silencio_. Even Draco, whose father was by far the sanest of the three, didn't escape Lucius' cane when the man was on the warpath. Though none were to blame for Lucius' bad moon, they had no doubt that this could somehow turn around on them. _

"_Gringotts floo-called me," Lucius had continued to rant, "in my office not ten minutes ago to inquire as to whether or not I'd lost my key—the bloody goblins were concerned that someone had stolen my identity! Can you believe that? Apparently it happens a pixie-a-dozen in the Muggle world—but a Malfoy? That I'd somehow gave leave of all my senses and lost my _Most_ Ancient and Noble house's Gringotts key was the most absurd thing I've heard all year!" _

"_I fail to see why you sent an owl most-haste to me over a slight by goblins," Snape had said dryly as he'd gone over to the wet bar and poured himself and his friend a glass of brandy. _

"_Yes," Lucius sneered viciously. "Neither would I, if I were you, except, are you aware of _how_ much money must be spent in order for Goblins to worry that I've lost my mind?" _

_Once again, Snape didn't verbally acknowledge the question, and simply handed Lucius a drink, and waved his hand impatiently as if to say "yes, yes, get it on with it or go brood alone—I've no time for the whims of entitled aristocrats."_

"_A fortune!" Lucius exploded like a potion gone wrong by the hands of Neville Longbottom. "The damned woman could have bought all of the damned Caribbean with the amount she's spent today!" _

"_What did you do?"_

"_What do you mean what'd I do? Why do you assume I've done something?"_

"_This is Narcissa Black we're talking about," Snape had sipped his drink coolly. "The last free inheritor of the House of Black. She's got her own fortune, but she's spending yours, so, what did you do?"_

_His cool deduction had snapped Lucius out of his rage, and had deflated him before their very eyes. The boys could only stare in awe at the ways of Severus Snape. _

"_Does it matter what I did? _

"_Perhaps."_

"_Bloody—"_

"_Careful, brother," Snape had joked sardonically, his face showing just the slightest of amusement. "There are innocent ears you wouldn't want to hear you sounding positively _common_, now would you?"_

_Lucius had glared slightly at the man, but curbed his tongue, and removed the immobilizing charm. His eyes had pierced them the way his gaze tended to do, and none of the small boys bothered to move though they could. Fear and curiosity ate away at them. _

"_Learn from my mistakes, boys," Lucius said wisely and somberly. "An unpleasant wife is a ghastly thing. The worst thing you could have is an unhappy wife—because an unhappy wife, equals a miserable _you_." _

_It had been one of the rare occasions that they'd heard Severus Snape burst out laughing. His laughter sounded like young love, if young love had a laugh—beautiful, and so tragic because it couldn't last._

It had also taken Lucius another five years to make up the deficit that Narcissa had caused in her fit, and it had been a lesson that Theo, Blaise, and Draco had learned well, hiding out for nearly a full week in Draco's room from the warring adults.

It was a lesson that stuck with the stench of fear—fear of so many things.

This lesson caused Theo and Draco to take pause at doing nothing in regards to the Muggle-born Registration Act, remembering Lucius' wise words.

They stopped in front of Transfiguration, and looked at the door, side by side, as though it had the answers to the universe. Perhaps it did. Just, _maybe_, the key to solve all of their problems was to stop being so afraid of Transfiguration—changing shape.

Maybe they just needed to learn what shape best fit them, and this new world that they lived in.

_Yes. Draco _is_ a dragon, and Blaise a Prince, but you Theo, you are special, too. You're a protector. You're the guard that protects the Dragon and the Prince_.

Draco remembered his father's words to them. Theo remembered too, and it shamed him that he didn't fit the role of protector anymore.

_Remember that you are each important—special—to each other._

Maybe this change, this Transfiguration in _life_ could help them get back to that which they've lost somewhere along the way.

"You jump, I jump, Jack?" Draco quirked an eyebrow, remembering that ridiculous movie on the television in the hotel Hermione had made him sit through during one of their long breaks between Occlumency lessons.

She'd wanted to go to the movie theater and see something else, but Draco had adamantly refused on both counts, and instead leisurely called the concierge and demanded a copy of the film that wouldn't premiere until November. The concierge had tried to explain that he couldn't do that, but Draco had learned from watching his father that there were few problems in the world money couldn't solve. This hadn't been one of them, and three hours later Draco and Hermione had been watching the film from the comfort of their couch, instead of surrounded by _muggles_.

"Who the hell is _Jack_?!"

"_Don't ask_," Draco groaned, remembering how upset he'd been that Jack had died.

He'd felt ludicrous, but also strangely justified as he'd pointed out to Hermione_ "see, the good guy _never_ wins! Even Muggles seem to know that law of the universe._"

Theo barked out a laugh. "We'd better be careful. Between Spinning Crowdiplunks—_seriously, don't fucking ask, Draco_—and _Jack_, whoever the hell that is, people might start to have trouble telling us apart from the crazies in St. Mungos."

"Don't even _joke_," Draco shuddered in disgust, a silly chuckle making its way out of him.

Silence greeted them, and people started to gather around the classroom—some wondering why Draco and Theo were blocking the entryway and weren't going in. Since Slytherins had the best self-preservation instincts of the lot, everyone decided that if they weren't going in then it was in _everyone's_ best interest to stay outside too. Better safe than sorry was the general consensus—especially with the dangers that lurked in the Castle now in the form of the Carrow siblings.

Draco and Theo simultaneously glowered at the crowd, and everyone instantly gave them more space—enough so that they couldn't eavesdrop on their conversation. It would do.

"The Stempenlucks might go for an amendment," Draco mused quietly.

"Nope," Theo shot back. "Their son, Adam, married Caroline Munoz last summer—the girl's a fanatic. There's no way he'd go against her, and old Stempenluck isn't going to go against him since he's the only possible blood heir."

"What about the Bagshots?"

"Maybe…they're swayable, for the right price."

"We don't want money coming into this—you wouldn't fucking _believe_ the price I'm paying for our hotel suite."

"Muggles bleeding you dry," Theo joked dryly.

"You wouldn't joke if you'd seen the bill," Draco glared. There was _no way_ he was letting that go anytime soon—he didn't care if he could afford it. He didn't like extortion if he could help it or being made to look a fool (paying an unreasonable price for an "extended stay" at a hotel most definitely fell into the latter). "What about the Castleroys? Don't tell me they're not a sure thing—their grandkids are all knee deep in blood traitors."

"They'd want to go for an abolishment, but _we_ can't afford to hit that hard," Theo reminded Draco reasonably.

"I might not want Granger pissed at me, but I don't give _that_ much of a fuck," Draco joked, but there was truth in his words. He was telling Theo without words that he didn't need such a reminder. He wouldn't risk his life, Theo's, or Hermione's own for her disappointed eyes. Not now. Maybe not ever.

"If we could convince Griselda Marchbanks of our _honorable _intentions," Draco resumed his considerations with a derisive twist of his lips and a hard glint in his eyes, "We'd get just past half the seats. Now that Dumbledore's dead, no one's got more sway on the Wizengamot than her."

"She's an elder," Theo frowned, thinking critically about all the ways talking to _anyone_ could go wrong. "There's nothing we can offer that she'd want. The blasted woman already has two feet in the goddamned grave."

"She thought the sun shined out of Dumbledore's ass," Draco snorted, but there was no humor in his eyes. "There's no way she's not itching for a reason to shut this law down."

"Alright, yeah," Theo shrugged, hands roving through his locks in frustration and anxiety. "Madame Marchbanks _would_ back a change, but she's not blind. She knows who we are. She knows the _connections_ we have. There's no way she'd believe we're doing this out of the goodness of our hearts—which we're fucking _not_, anyway."

Silence enveloped them again, this time pressing down around them. It felt like the pressure from a tidal wave when one was already underwater—that _force_ that couldn't bury, but couldn't let up either.

It all felt like a ball of squished ideas.

Transfiguration. _Change shape, not change completely. _

Marchbanks. Dumbledore. Honor. Deceit.

Because they'd never be bold like Gryffindors. They might want to be; the thought might cross their minds; the will might shift uncomfortably beneath their skins; the need might push against their lungs and belly, every now and then; but even so, they'd never be Gryffindors.

"So we don't approach her," Draco realized. _Change shape, not change completely._ Theo gave him a look that clearly said that Draco was an idiot. "No—listen, we already know that she's dying to do something about this law—that enough people will vote for the change if she does, but she's not going to make the first move. Technically, all she needs is for _someone, whatever their reasons_, to make objections—nothing major, just enough to get Granger and Lovegood off our backs. So we don't _need_ to tell her or anyone beforehand."

There was logic to Draco's statement. Too much logic. Tactically, it was perfect—gave the advantage, without making them vulnerable before Saturday or risk being seen as sympathizers or worse, blood traitors, since they hadn't been lobbying for a change.

But it also had the potential to blow up in their faces when the Dark Lord found out. Scratch that—it would most definitely blow up in their faces when the Dark Lord found out.

"_Fuckin' hell_," Theo growled, suddenly very serious. His insides jumped and shook around as though he'd just spent a month at sea suffering from _mal de mer_. "I _know_ I'm going to regret this—just _bloody know it_. Fine—_fine_. You jump, I jump."

_You jump, I jump_.

Draco nodded once with a small smirk upon his lips, and opened the door.

* * *

"Why are we in a broom closet, Harry?" Hermione asked casually, as though this were a common occurrence. Then again, with Harry Potter as a best friend, this really wasn't the strangest thing that they've done.

"We're hiding from Cho," Harry groaned. His jet black hair seemed as ruffled as his demeanor.

"You mean _you_ are hiding from Cho," she corrected pointedly. If he hadn't been giving her longing looks last year, this wouldn't be a problem now, so Hermione wasn't keen on comforting him at the moment.

"_We_," Harry repeated, a sheepish smile tempting his lips. "We ride together, we die together, right?"

"Oh please!" Hermione laughed as she rolled her eyes. "_Bad Boys_? Really?"

"I thought it was fitting," Harry shrugged. Happy that he'd avoided Hermione's ire for the moment.

"Yes, well," Hermione tilted her head, "it would be more fitting if you'd simply tell me why we're here."

"Do I have to?" Harry asked honestly. The only way he knew.

"No," Hermione sobered, the smile gone from her lips and eyes. She meant this. She meant this with all of her heart. "You don't ever have to tell me anything you don't want to…it's your life."

"I've missed this, y'know," Harry's green eyes clashed with hers, pinning her to the spot the way it always had. "The freedom you give, the comfort you give. It wasn't the same—the Burrow—without you."

"Life is…_strange_, now, isn't it?" she pondered, following the strands of black hair that stood too far out.

"Guess that's one way to put it," he shrugged again. But his eyes didn't stray from her.

"Are you angry at me?" Hermione whispered.

She had to put it out there. This was the first time they were alone, and it'd been clawing at her chest for a while now, the idea that though Harry supported her decision, he secretly hated her. She didn't want him to hate her. She didn't want him to _ever_ hate her.

"No," Harry shook his head, his eyes steady like his constitution. "I'm not angry at you. I just—I don't understand. Maybe I never will."

"I don't quite understand it either," the corner of Hermione's lips lifted self-deprecatingly. "Being married to him is hard, harder than I'd ever imagined."

There was a shared honesty that lingered in the air. It felt like an old sweater that smelled of home. It was arguably the best feeling in the world, combatted only by the feel of Draco moving inside of her, clinging to her, making her believe with every hiss and moan that she mattered to him.

"Why?"

It was a simply question. Too simple. _Why was being married to Draco so hard? _

"I don't know," Hermione let her legs give out, and sunk to the floor. Harry, the strong shoulder to lean on he'd always been, walked over to her, and sank to the floor next to her. Shoulder to shoulder. _They_. And it'd been _too long_. "How are things between you and Ginny?"

"Eh," he looked forward, into the darkness and space. "It's Ginny. We both know things _can't_ be hard—she loves me too much."

"Sounds like you _want_ things to be difficult," Hermione chided softly. But this was their bubble. And in it, there would be no lies or half-truths. Not here.

"It'd be _better_ if things were harder, sure," Harry admitted quietly.

"You say that, but you don't know what it's like," Hermione pursed her lips. "If you did, you wouldn't be so quick to wish for it."

"But at least you know it's _real_," he rebutted. "No matter how difficult things might get with Malfoy, at least you know that it's real, that it'll always be real. I don't have that with Ginny. Our marriage, for whatever it's worth, won't ever be as _real_ as yours."

Hermione's hands automatically reached for Harry's, and she remembered how much she cared. She remembered that her purpose for so long had been rooted in his existence. It was strange, to feel his smooth hand beneath hers, and know that he wasn't the center of her universe anymore. But he could be again. _So easily_. They were best friends of the deepest kind. If only the heat from Draco's lips weren't imprinted on her own.

"You don't want to marry her," Hermione finally said the words that had been haunting the air silently. Her heart beat furiously. She wanted him to admit it. She didn't want him to admit. _Yes. No. _She didn't know what she wanted or expected.

All she knew was that if he married _Ginny_, out of all the women in the world for him to marry, she'd feel some type of way about it. Whether good or bad, only time would tell.

"I don't."

There it was. His candor in all of its glory. Her fingers tightened around his hand.

"Everything's changing so fast," she murmured, letting her head lean on his shoulder. "Even Luna isn't quite the same anymore."

"She's growing on you?" Harry chuckled, eyes shining with mischief. "I knew you'd be crazy about her once you grew close."

"Close, right," she scoffed. "More like growing on me like agaricus bitorquis."

"What's that?"

"Oh, never mind," Hermione lifted her head and shook it at him in exasperation. "_The point_ is that she's not the same. Not really. She was innocent before. Naïve, maybe. She's still batty, but I don't think she's that naïve anymore. She sees _more_."

"She's always seen more," Harry released Hermione's hand, and put his arm around her shoulders. "You just couldn't see what she saw, but she hasn't changed. Not at all, I'd say."

"Maybe," Hermione said reluctantly. "Are you surprised that she's marrying Theo Nott?"

Harry let out a bark of laughter. "I'm surprised that she hasn't gone running to the altar."

"Why?"

"It's _Luna_," he laughed and his eyes were bright with merriment. These kinds of moments felt so rare after Dumbledore's death that Hermione wanted to hold onto it forever. "I don't think she really does things half-way, and she _never_ cares about what other people think."

"Don't hold her up too high," Hermione warned gently. She didn't want to ruin his view of her, but living among the other side had taught her that _nothing_ was ever as it seemed. "She hasn't run to the altar yet because Nott hasn't paid the price for her hand yet."

"What do you mean?"

The innocent question struck something deep inside of Hermione's heart. She could answer him the way he deserved, with full disclosure. But he was the light. He'd always been the light. He'd always _be_ the light.

She could never be the reason why that light dimmed; suddenly she understood why Dumbledore never wanted to tell Harry much of anything. It was a burden all on its own to decide which veil to lift from Harry's eyes.

_What do you mean?_

"Nothing," Hermione lied, a tender smile on her lips. "Nothing at all."

* * *

Breakfast, Sunday morning, was accompanied by a flurry of activity. People were talking fervently to one another, whispering harshly, and casting glances at Hermione as she walked through the large Hall doors.

"What's all this?" Hermione asked, pointedly looking around as she sat down next to Harry and Ron as usual.

Ron simply shrugged, too engrossed in his meal to care. It was very typical—so _normal_ that Hermione didn't even reprimand him for eating like a pig. He could eat without any manners at all for as long as he liked, as long as they stayed this way, _normal_.

But Harry, wiping the bleariness from his eyes, finally realized what Hermione meant. He poked Ron, to get his attention.

"Oi! Can't a bloke eat?"

"_Ronald_," Hermione said his name in that exasperated voice she'd often used in the past. He heard the tone, and felt warm inside. It'd been _so long_ since she'd said his name like that. _Too long_. "Can't you see that something important must be going on?"

"Where's Ginny?" Harry inquired. At Hermione and Ron's confused looks at the connection he shrugged. "She always knows the latest scandal."

"This has to be bigger than a school scandal" Hermione reasoned, judging by the whispers and stares.

"—unless Snape was found having an affair with McGonagall," Ron muttered. It was such an outrageous thought, so completely absurd, that all three froze, and then couldn't help the burst in laughter.

"I think I'm scarred for life," Harry grinned, and it was magnificent.

"_You_?" Hermione joked wide-eyed. "Snape is Malfoy's _godfather_. I'll have to see the Headmaster at Christmas with that image in my head."

It was a good moment, to laugh and joke; it was something the three hadn't shared together so genuinely for a while now. Not since before she'd agreed to marry Draco.

But like everything in a world post-Dumbledore, simple joy was hard to hold onto.

"Hello," Luna appeared behind them, startling Ron so much so that he choked on the orange juice he was drinking. "Alright there, Ron?"

"Yeah," Ron coughed, and Hermione patted his back in sympathy.

"How are you Luna?" Harry smiled at her, genuinely glad to see her.

"Oh Harry!" Luna looked like she could burst. "I'm really rather wonderful. I think the Aquavirius Maggot has finally infected Draco and Theo!"

"Oh, for the love of Merlin," Hermione rolled her eyes and breathed through her nose. Luna didn't even notice Hermione's annoyance.

_Be nice. Be nice. _

No matter what situation Hermione found herself in, regardless of how much middle ground she could find with Luna, Luna was still one of the few people in the world that could test her patience without even trying.

"It's deadly, I hope?" Harry deadpanned.

Ron choked on his juice again, this time from laughing and drinking at the same time.

"Oh no," Luna shook her head, her pale blue eyes so happy and content that Hermione almost marveled. "But it definitely has strange effects. See for yourself," she said as she thrust the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ at Harry.

Hermione and Ron both squeezed next to each other to look over Harry's shoulder to the front page that read in big and bold letters: _LORDS MALFOY AND NOTT: MODERATE LEADERS OF A NEW GENERATION! _

Hermione was stumped; Draco hadn't said much of anything when he'd arrived back at Hogwarts the night before—only that that he had to go see the Dark Lord, and that she shouldn't wait up. Since some of his meetings with Voldermort could last all night, Hermione had fallen asleep, and awoken only to notice that he had not yet returned.

But now, a hope so bright and brilliant shone in her heart. Could this be? Would he have voted _against_?!

"Open it, open it" Hermione rushed Harry.

Harry's hands shook as he opened to read the article on the next page.

"Bloody hell," Ron mumbled as his eyes took in what his brain had yet to fully understand.

_LORDS MALFOY AND NOTT: MODERATE LEADERS OF A NEW GENERATION!_

_By Alexa Guillermo _

_Yesterday, Saturday afternoon, as the sun was high, one of the most important (and dare I say revolutionary) decisions of this era in Wizarding Britain was being decided. There's been a lot of change in the past year, with the death of Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore, the removal of some of the most influential Lords from the Wizengamot due to incarceration and other unfortunate circumstances, and the __growing influence of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Anyone seeking proof that our world has moved into a new era need only look at yesterday's Wizengamot vote__. _

_In its original form, the Muggle-born Registration Act would have required—among other things—every Muggle-born register their blood status with the Ministry of Magic (as part of public record) __and to submit their wands for Ministry registration and monitoring. Proponents of the law stated registration would benefit the entire magical community by ensuring that the Ministry of Magic could immediately trace and punish violations of the Statute of Secrecy._

_It appeared that the law would pass unaltered and by near unanimous vote, but the legislation's sponsors hadn't expected to hear the voices of a new generation. As many are aware, former Lord Lucius Malfoy and Lord Theodore Nott Sr. were stripped of their titles and their Wizengamot seats. Both men were succeeded by their sons and heirs, Lord Draco Lucius Malfoy and Lord Theodore Nott Jr. _

_These two Machiavellian mavericks played their unassuming parts to a tee—most took for granted that they were an absolute 'aye,' but when push came to shove, __Lords Malfoy and Nott led the charge to amend the registration, removing the wand registration requirement as superfluous, given the Ministry's current ability to respond immediately to violations of the Statute of Secrecy and including language in the legislation to simplify the registration process and make it as non-invasive as possible._

_Their decision, though unprecedented, comes as no surprise to those who witnessed the marriage between Lord Malfoy and Lady Hermione Malfoy, formerly Hermione Granger and presumably still current best friend—and rumored possible former paramour—to Harry Potter, the-Boy-Who-Lived. The affection and love between the two were clear as day to any with eyes as they tied the silk thread of destiny and bound themselves to each other. [for pictures of this event and others, see pg 10 of the Society Section] _

_Lord Theodore Nott Jr. is rumored to be in the process of finalizing his engagement to Luna Lovegood, another friend of Potter's, the-Boy-Who-Lived._

_In these uncertain times, Lords Malfoy and Nott have given voice to the new generation of young and up-and-coming wizards and witches. Their respect for tradition and rule of law, combined with a desire to avoid drastic upheaval in our world has many wondering if someday we'll call Lord Malfoy or Lord Nott by the title of "Minister of Magic."_

Hermione couldn't believe her eyes. Maybe Aquavirius Maggot really had infected Draco and Theo Nott. Sure, she'd hoped, _oh she'd hoped_, with every shred of faith she had inside of her that Draco would do _something_, but she hadn't actually expected him to.

_I'll always do what I can_, he'd promised her.

Draco Malfoy was a man of his word; she'd known that the day she'd agreed to marry him. She was reaffirmed in that truth now. There was a twinge of disappointment deep in her ribcage at the fact that the law had passed at all, but she ignored it in favor of a better feeling. Pride.

Pride swelled inside of her chest, aching to burst out of her—that was _her_ husband. It was _her husband_ who'd bothered to stand up when no one else would. No one else save for Theo, and at that thought Hermione looked at Luna's beaming face.

Hers was filled with pride too.

She could forget about Luna's imaginary creatures for a moment to bask in the exhilaration of being two women who could say their men's names with _pride_ today. No, it wasn't the grand gesture a Gryffindor would have made, declaring the legislation unethical and immoral, insisting it be voted down, but he'd done _something_.

In a moment like this, she actually could love Draco—even if only for a second.

She needed to see him. Now. It took only a second for the thought the flash across her mind before her feet were lifting her off the bench, and carrying her out of the Great Hall, down through the dungeons, into the Slytherin Common Room, and up the stairs that lead to her bedroom.

She was out of breath, she'd been running so fast without stopping. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except seeing Draco.

She wished beyond anything that Draco had returned from seeing the Voldemort. She wanted to kiss him like she'd never kissed him before. She wanted to liberate herself in his arms, and offer him sanctuary.

Her chest felt too full with yearning, delight, and unadulterated happiness that she had married a man worth knowing. That Draco wasn't the monster he'd like to think he was. That—

She opened the door, and it was like a glass falling from a top shelf; everything shattered in an instant.

Draco's blood was thick and smooth like honey; Hermione wanted to scream in horror.

_No, no, no_.

Her eyes were wide and entranced. She was frozen at the opening of their bedroom door. _This couldn't be real_, but it was. It was real in that way that children sometimes had trouble distinguishing nightmares from reality.

The lights were too bright. The shadows too large. The blood too thick as it pooled around his figure that was hunched against the sofa, Snape quietly murmuring spells after spells.

"_What happened?_"

The words left her mouth, but they didn't belong to her, did they? Her hands reached for Draco's face—when did she walk over to them?

It was like the world had betrayed her, and she was now missing something vital.

"_Draco_," Hermione whispered his name like she was being tortured. Maybe she was. Maybe, through some twist of fate and magic, she could feel all of the pain he must have felt.

"Hold that…thought…until we're…alone and…you can…scream my name…properly" Draco croaked out crudely, voice trembling, body being help upright with a spell, eyes burning with tears begging to be unleashed.

"Who did this?"

"Don't badger him, Miss Granger," Snape snapped at her, eyes tight and brow furrowed in concentration.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione snapped right back like a bullet being shot by a gun. "_Mrs. Malfoy_," she repeated slowly, as though _that_ were the great injustice in this moment.

Perhaps it was. Perhaps, it was all she could handle, because that was _Draco Malfoy_, _Dragon_—whatever the hell that meant—and _husband_ bleeding all over their bedroom floor.

"Who did this?" Hermione whispered, crushed.

Tears glistened in her eyes. Draco was so proud—too proud. To have been at someone's mercy like this—she could barely stand to think of the shame, embarrassment, and _pain_ he must've felt.

"Who do you think?" Snape snapped at her, his patience obliterated. "_Everything_ has a price, _Mrs. Malfoy,_" he sneered without once taking his eyes off his task.

_Everything has a price._

It was a truth that Hermione had never bothered to truly understand. She'd always lived in a bubble created by Dumbledore that everything would always work out in the end—good deeds having good rewards.

But as Hermione took in the blood, the pain on Draco's face, eyes clenched, she knew that Dumbledore had done her and her friends a disservice.

_Everything has a price_.

_This_ was his price for amending the Muggle-born Registration Act. Voldemort must have been furious.

"You should go," Draco told Hermione, clearly thinking of her Order meeting. At Snape's penetrating look, he clarified. "She has _somewhere_ to be."

Snape's gaze realigned in understanding, shifting only for a moment and then back to its standard impassive expression. "She has no _nowhere_ to be for another three hours."

Hermione was gob-smacked. They were saying so much, without really saying anything.

_She_ knew that they were talking about the Order meeting, but anyone that would look in either of their heads would simply see an innocuous conversation that could have been about anything from detention, to prefect duties.

It was genius, and heartbreaking that these were the lengths that a godfather and his godson must go to in order to have honesty between them.

Hermione didn't know what she could do to help, so she lifted her hand, and ran her finger through his sweat-matted hair. Draco leaned into her, taking as much comfort as she could give him.

_Everything has a price_.

But they were still together, _linked_, fucking super-glued, completely past the point of no return.

Perhaps there'd never been a point of return—not with the way Draco's lips were practically born to claim hers. Not with the way their eyes could meet and clash and break each other apart.

No, there had never been another choice.

Together, _always_. It was a quiet truth that vibrated in their bones, and that neither needed to voice aloud.

* * *

Hermione stayed with Draco until the sandman claimed him, and Snape had moved him face down on the bed. There were so many spells—spells that Hermione hadn't known existed, let alone how to perform.

It had been awkward though, once Draco fell asleep.

"_Is he going to be alright?" Hermione had asked quietly. She wanted the truth, but she also wanted the truth to be something good. She didn't think she could take it if he weren't—not when she knew in the deepest corners of her heart that what he'd done, he'd done for her. "Shouldn't we take him to Madame Pomfrey?"_

"_I assure you, I am more than capable of attending to my godson," Snape had said icily. Though his eyes had softened just a tab bit when he answered her original question. "He'll be fine—with a few days of rest."_

"_Absolutely—I'll chain him to the bed if I have to," Hermione had nodded profusely. _

"_I said _rest_, Mrs. Malfoy," Snape had given a clearly suggestive and pointed look. _

_Hermione had lit up like a tomato, she'd been so embarrassed. _

"_O—of course," she'd stammered. She'd wanted to escape this conversation _so_ badly! _

"_Yes_," _Snape had drawled in that way that could shame and infuriate even the most mildly tempered person. "I assume the ruckus people were complaining about the other night won't become a common occurrence—"_

"_Oh my god!" Hermione clasped her hand to her mouth in shock and humiliation. _

"_Yes, I believe He was mentioned quite a few times as well during that rather sonorous debacle." _

_Hermione had turned to run from the room, but Snape had halted her steps with his quick words. "Be there at noon, Mrs. Malfoy. Noon."_

_Hermione had barely nodded and squeaked her assent before she fled the dungeons in search of Harry—to apologize, and ask him if she could go in his stead; to forget about the most awkward conversation of her life. _

_All the while, Severus Snape had let out a dark chuckle at Hermione's expense. One of the few joys he found as an educator—finding new ways to embarrass his students, _especially_ when they deserved it. _

Once she'd found him, Hermione's words had tumbled around, barely understandable, though the sentiment was clear. Harry, in true Harry form hesitated for a moment, always desperate for any scraps of information he could get from the Order. But, he must have seen something in her eyes. Something in her demeanor. Something that made him pause. And instead of bringing up the fact that they'd already established that he'd go to the Order meeting (like anyone else who loved Hermione less would have done), Harry had been open and understanding about letting Hermione go in his stead, though his eyes had been burning with curiosity. Hermione hadn't had time to come up with an answer, and had simply left, knowing they'd have _that_ conversation once she got back.

But now that she was here, she didn't know what to say.

Her anxiety in the Shrieking Shack was palpable.

She knew the people in this room. There was no reason for her heart to be beating like she'd run a marathon, or her palms to be sweating. She'd known Molly Weasley and Professor McGonagall since she was an _ickle firstie_, Remus since her Third Year, and Mad-Eye Moody since Fourth Year (even if Moody hadn't really been Moody at the time—Barty Crouch Jr. honestly had done one hell of an impersonation, and really had been a good Professor). The only person she didn't know well at all was Kingsley Shaklebolt—she'd simply met him once when he'd come by Grimmauld Place.

"So," Remus smiled that crooked smile of his at her. "How've you been, Hermione?"

"Good," Hermione responded stiffly.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Shaklebolt tipped his head towards her from the dusty corner. He looked _efficient_. "Married life seems to agree with you."

"Married life agrees with all newlyweds," Molly noted tensely as she fussed a bit over Hermione in that way that she fussed over everyone she came into contact with, though her smile wasn't as warm and her touch didn't linger.

There was a clear separation between them that Hermione didn't know how to fix, and wasn't sure she cared to.

Nevertheless, Hermione respected Molly Weasley; the woman could smother like no other when you were in her good graces (which Hermione could tell she was _not_), but she meant well. She loved her family deeply, and defended them fiercely. Hermione thought she'd be lucky if she could be half the wife and mother that Mrs. Weasley was, despite the woman's failings.

"Not to disturb the sufficiently awkward pleasantries," Snape interrupted the stilted conversation. "But time is against us."

"The snake here has a point," Moody agreed insultingly. But before Remus or McGonagall could smooth Hermione into the questions, Moody simply asked, "Well—whattaya have for us?"

Hermione froze. She couldn't move. She couldn't speak. She couldn't do anything except throw his words around in her head. What _did_ she have for them, except hesitance and disloyalty?

"Well, things have been a bit crazy lately," Hermione stalled. "Did you honestly expect me to have much?"

"No, Miss Granger," McGonagall jumped in to reassure her. This wasn't a witch hunt. She'd volunteered to help, which is all any of them could ask—they had to trust her to work at her own pace. "And we certainly don't expect you to put yourself in any danger to procure information—"

Hermione opened her mouth to correct her name—why can no one seem to remember?—when Moody interjected instead.

"Ay, we don't expect much girl," Moody rolled his one eye as though he were dealing with imbeciles. "But you've been living with devils. You can't honestly say you've found _nothing_ useful?"

"Well," Hermione bit out, incensed. "_I_ don't see my husband as a devil."

Snape was suspiciously quiet, which unnerved Hermione. He must know so much more than her, and yet they were all looking to hear what she knew.

"Hermione, what's going on?" Remus asked her kindly.

"You can tell us, dear," Molly prodded gently, though Hermione knew it was just a mask. She'd forsaken the love of her son for another—no mother, especially Molly Weasley who was quick to judge, could forgive that so easily. The falseness of it all…

It was all Hermione needed.

"Have any of you seen the news today?"

Their silence was answer enough. She wanted to rage and storm—with what audacity were they able to stand and ask more of her, and by extension Draco (whether or not they realized)? Maybe it wasn't audacity, but instead blindness.

Maybe they were blinded the way she'd been before she'd seen all of the blood. All of the pain on her husband's prideful and strong face.

"Do you think that his actions didn't have a price?" Hermione whispered savagely. She caught Snape's eyes and held them for a moment. Understanding flooded between them, and Hermione looked away with his words on her lips. "_Everything has a price_, and _my husband_ paid a heavy one for me—for _my_ cause."

"You've turned him?" Shaklebolt pierced her with his shocked but hungry eyes.

She knew that if she could turn Draco, it would be a major coup for the Light Side, but she wouldn't be shaken.

"That's all you care about? Then _no_, I haven't turned him."

It would be a major coup, and likely get him killed in the process. That wasn't a price she'd ever be willing to pay.

"We're in a war," Shacklebolt tried to communicate his reasoning, but Hermione couldn't be reasoned with. Not right now. Not when Draco was lying in their bed, body broken from abuse and torture.

"That justifies _nothing_," Hermione roared. She wanted to break the walls down with her screams until Draco could be built back up from the wreckage. "Not to me, not when my husband was the one to pay the price!"

"And we're sorry, dearie," Molly took on the mantle of peacekeeper for the moment. Her hands were outstretched, waiting to evaporate the fury inside of Hermione with a stiff hug. "We're sorry that Malfoy was hurt. What he did was brave—whatever his reasons."

Just like that, Hermione was defused. She felt so tired, so drained from it all. From the pressure of trying not to care about Malfoy. From the burden of caring for him just the tiniest bit and seeing what his own reflection of her feelings brought him.

"You never answered the question," Moody noted. Hermione tensed, but said nothing. Her silence was as good of a condemnation as any answer she could have given.

"Moody," McGonagall warned him silently to tread carefully. But the man was an auror—through and through. He didn't tread carefully, he bulldozed and fought until he died or his enemies died first.

"You're hiding something—what is it?" Moody asked Hermione suspiciously.

"I'm protecting my _husband_!" Hermione snarled. She might not be Molly Weasley or Minerva McGonagall, but she could be ruthless. She could be fearless and fierce in her own way.

She might be on the Light side, but she wasn't about to throw Draco under the bus. Not after she'd seen that he truly was trying. For her. He was trying _so damn hard_ for _her_. She wouldn't pay that consideration with betrayal—not even for the Order.

"He's on the _wrong side,_" Molly beseeched Hermione to see reason. But her words only served as more fuel.

"And if Mr. Weasley were on the Dark Side, then what? What would you do?" Hermione stared her down, _daring_ her silently to lie and say she'd _do the right thing_.

Molly tried to reason, but her naturally overbearing motherly instinct, combined with the anger she still felt for Hermione's slight against Ron, had her shrieking at Hermione before she could stop herself. "He isn't!"

"But if he were—if he decided to join the Dark Lord, what would you do? Would you _betray_ him? _Abandon_ him? No? Then why should I? Why does everyone expect me to? Because I'm Muggle-born? With all due respect, Mrs. Weasley, even in the Muggle world being married means something," Hermione said through clenched teeth.

"What do you know?" Remus tried to focus everyone before the conversation got even more out of hand than it already had.

"I'm not a _spy_" Hermione stated boldly. "Not if it puts Malfoy in danger."

"If you're not a spy then what are you? Because look around, girl, you ain't here cause you got a hard on for dusty places." Moody scowled harshly at her.

"Moody!" McGonagall screeched his name, scandalized.

"Eh, you know I got a point, you ol' wench. The chit was as good as beggin' to be in the Order, to fight for the Light, but now that it counts, now that she has _information_ she wants to hold back because the Malfoy boy knows how to use his—"

"Now that's enough, Mad Eye" Remus said sternly, his eyes and tone sharp. Moody didn't back down, but he didn't continue on either.

Hermione could have cared less if he had, because she wasn't putting Draco in danger. Not tonight.

"I know this is a trying conversation, but I'd ask that you refrain from vulgarity again in my presence," McGonagall said tersely to Moody, with a pinched look upon her face as though she'd tasted something foul and sour.

"Hermione," Remus' tone softened. He'd never been in her position, but he could only imagine how hard this must be for her. "No one expects this to be _easy_ for you. Doing the right this is _never_ easy. But this _is_ the right thing. Telling us whatever you know is the _best_ option—the only other option is to let the world go up in flames around you, and that's not who you are. That's not the Hermione Granger we know."

His words were like a spell trying to take hold of her. But it couldn't stick, because he was right—that _wasn't_ the Hermione Granger they knew. Too bad she wasn't Hermione Granger anymore; she was Hermione _Malfoy_ and Malfoys always protected their own first.

She lifted her chin, eyes hard and bright, and said, "The Pembrook, Ganish, and Wentworth families are working for the Dark Lord—I pestered Malfoy a bit, and he admitted that the Wentworth's have a daughter that's sweet on Jackson Tinterlunk. Jackson's a half-blood _staunchly_ against the Dark Lord. That's your way in, to turn her, if you need one."

She didn't wait to hear any responses, and turned on her heel and left, her cloak billowing behind her so dramatically that surely Severus Snape would be proud.

The chill in the Shrieking Shack sank into all of their bones.

"I'd bet my last leg that's not all she knows," Moody snarled. "Not by a long shot."

"You're probably right," Kingsley sighed tiredly. "But we can't force the information out of the girl."

"She's protecting her husband," Molly sighed resignedly. She might not like it, but she couldn't really fault Hermione for it either. "Any wife would've done the same."

"The question is _how_ do we get her to open up," Remus wondered aloud, feeling slightly guilty. "We need a way to get her to willingly share what she knows…"

"Eh, ain't you lot saints," Moody rolled his eyes. He'd been an auror longer than he'd ever been a good man, and he wasn't above using underhanded means to get to important information. "We all know her weak spots are her best friends. So, we use Harry Potter."

"That's abhorrent!" McGonagall shook her head at him, face stoic, but her eyes were filled with disgust. Disgust at Moody, and at herself because she saw the merit of his idea. "Perhaps if we could offer some safeguard to Mister Malfoy, then she wouldn't be opposed to sharing. She _wants_ to tell us—tonight's conversation proves that if nothing else."

Kingsley shook his head, pragmatic to the end. "We can't offer him any consideration unless he joins the Order."

"But if he's told her things—secrets—_knowing_ she's a part of the Order, and that she'd likely come tell us, then doesn't that mean that he's a bit on our side, too?" Molly reasoned.

"Or he knew she wouldn't betray his trust," Remus countered sadly. This was war, and nothing was sacred, anymore. Let alone blind faith in those around them. "They've been married for months, now. We don't know much about their relationship, but they clearly must talk. And since they _do_ talk, for all we know they could have some sort of agreement that what they say to each other _stays_ with each other. Most married couples do. It shouldn't be that much of a surprise if they do, too."

"So we're agreed," Snape's velvet voice cut through the room, viciously reminding everyone that a plan of action had to be taken. "We use Potter to get the information from her?"

Hesitant nods went around the room until everyone was agreed.

_They would use Harry Potter._

But what they didn't know, _couldn't see_, too wrapped in the chess of war, was that just as Harry was Hermione's weakness, she was his too. And woe be to the person who didn't understand the kind of love and loyalty they shared, even in the middle of a storm.

* * *

So, what do you guys think?! I swear there's a method to my madness! Anywho, liked it? Hated it? Let me know and review! **Reviews are love** :)


	10. The Double Edged Sword of Success

Disclaimer – I own nothing.

A.N – Hello lovelies! So sorry for the wait, but real life and actually drafting this chapter was a bit of a nightmare. Add to that the fact that I got sick, and I've been a mess. On that note, sadly, I'm waaay too tired to give everyone a shout out right now. **But I adore you all!**

Frankly, it was either mention all of you who've reviewed to thank you _because you really are awesome and I re-read them for motivation _and wait to update sometime tomorrow, or upload now without the special shout-out thank yous. I'm going to assume that you'd all appreciate an update as a thank you instead. :)

As always a special thank you to my beta, **ellabelle12, **who's magnificent for working so hard with me on this chapter, and to **olivieblake**, who deals with my random cries for help.

Anywho, hope everyone enjoys!

_/I wanna lie awake with your black soul, count your fears if you let me_

_Baby, I just want your damn bad intentions, I've got some damn bad intentions_

_I got some secrets I forgot to mention, haven't learned my lesson/_

-Bad Intentions, Niykee Heaton

Chapter 10 – The Double Edged Sword of Success

Kisses could be like little bits of sunshine sometimes, if they're slow and easy. But Draco never could do anything slow, anything easy. It had never been in his nature, and it never would be.

That same nature was what pulled Hermione closer on some nights, and away on others. But somewhere during that fateful month of August and the ending of September, Hermione had gotten used to kisses that were like the most ferocious storm—long and hard.

Now, mid-October, Draco's kisses were the only constant in her life.

After her very tense departure from the Order Meeting a few weeks ago, Hermione had given Draco her complete attention. She knew that she had nothing to feel guilty over, but she still felt like she owed him something for _trying_.

So she smiled at him every once in a while, on top of her valiant attempt to watch his every move. It'd been amusing at first, to watch her watch him. But then he couldn't escape her judgement—those eyes that constantly saw his flaws, and his cruelty. But she tried to smile at him every once in a while; she tried to ease that tension that was integral to them. She even hugged him once—it only took a few seconds to discover that they weren't the hugging _type_.

Post coital cuddling when the world seemed hazy with bliss was one thing. Apparently, hugging _out of nowhere_ was an entirely different matter.

_Draco had been riding the waves in and out of consciousness. Whenever he'd close his eyes he'd see Hermione's worried stare, her frowning brow, her downturned lips—Merlin, those lips. He'd been in a daze, enjoying the nothingness that could surround him, when suddenly skinny arms surrounded him. _

_It'd been nice…until he realized that he was sitting up in pain…and it was the middle of the day…and he hadn't just had sex…and why in the hell was anyone hugging him? _

"_Granger?" Draco had said extremely awkwardly. His eyes were so wide that they looked about to pop out. _

"_Yes?" Hermione asked tensely. She tried to hug him harder, if only to get the anxiety out of her bones. _

"_What are you doing?"_

"_What do you mean?" _

"I mean_, what are you doing?"_

"_Hugging you?"_

"_No, you're not." His words were sharp, but Hermione hadn't been offended. With the swiftness that she'd wrapped her arms around him, she'd let him go. _

His eyes had been hard as he turned and gazed upon her. She didn't begrudge him the wall that he'd clearly erected between them.

That wasn't who they were. That wasn't who they'd ever be, and it was harsh truth to accept—that he wasn't one of the Harry Potters of the world, and affection for them would never be that overt, that explicit and simple.

* * *

"We need to talk," Harry said urgently to Hermione, a week after the hugging incident with Draco, as he sidled up next to her and hauled her into an alcove in the bustling hallway.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Voldemort's recruiting in Hogwarts."

"What?"

"Well, at least he's going to—Malfoy hasn't mentioned this to you?"

"No, he hasn't. How do _you_ know?"

Harry tapped his head, and Hermione understood perfectly what he meant; he'd had a vision last night. She wanted to chastise him to keep up with his occlumency shields, regardless of how shabby they might be. She _should_ rebuke him, but she wasn't going to.

The day had been so long already, and frankly, this wasn't a battle worth fighting. Not today, at least. Instead, Hermione went to ask about the dream in detail. But before she could, Ginny swaggered over, and interjected herself in the conversation.

Hermione could only raise an eyebrow—she wouldn't be mean or rude, or short, they were friends after all.

"What's going on?" Ginny asked, hair shinning like fire. Ginny spared a glance at Hermione, but she was really asking Harry.

Everyone knew it, and though Harry wanted to care, he was a typical oblivious teenage boy who assumed that whatever was between Ginny and Hermione could stay between them.

"Nothing much," Harry shrugged. "Just telling Hermione about _last night_."

"She knew?"

Hermione asked the words without thinking. She didn't mean anything by it. Not really. Well, not _purposefully_, because the fact of the matter was that she'd been the one always in the know first when it came to Harry. She was the one he'd seek out after a vision or nightmare. But not anymore. Not since she wasn't as easily accessible as she'd been, only down the hall from him at the girl's dormitory at Gryffindor tower.

Now, everything was different, and it was strange to understand and feel that difference so acutely.

"Yeah, I knew," Ginny narrowed her eyes. "I'm surprised you didn't know, really. Considering who you're married to."

It was a dig that Hermione would have let slide any other day…except that Ginny could be such a raging _bitch_ sometimes, that Hermione probably wouldn't have let it slide any other day either—not when it was Ginny making that comment.

But they were friends, Hermione had to remind herself. Friendship was a fragile thing that must always be nurtured…

"Well, Malfoy and I give each other space," Hermione smiled tightly. _Be nice. Don't be rude or short_. "It's something you'll hopefully understand one day."

Once she spoke, she knew they were going to have one of _those_ days—the kind that got under each other's skin, and would keep them avoiding each other until Harry or Ron somehow brought them back together by association.

"Yeah, _Herms_," Ginny pursed her lips, attitude rolling off of her in waves. "Because you're known for giving space."

"Uhh," Harry tried to interject but he didn't really know what to say or how to articulate what he was feeling. It was a strange feeling, warm and acidy at the same time.

"This isn't about what I'm _known for_," Hermione glared. "And excuse us, but we were having an important conversation before you interrupted."

Ginny went to rebut, but Harry had been up most of the night and his own patience with their bickering was at an all-time low.

"Can we just _not_ right now, guys?" He meant to snap, but it just came out bone-deep tired, and both girls could see the weariness on his face.

With pursed lips, and clenched flaring nostrils, both girls nodded, clearly still irritated with each other. After a moment of tense silence, Ginny rolled her eyes.

"I guess I'll leave you to it, since it's not like I'm the last to know," Ginny smiled with false sweetness, as she leaned on Harry and swiftly kissed him good-bye.

"Thanks, Ginny" Harry gave Ginny a slight squeeze on her hips before letting her go.

Hermione watched the entire encounter with hawk-eyes. It was strange, to see Harry touching anyone romantically. It didn't matter that Hermione knew he'd kissed Cho. It didn't matter that Hermione knew he'd kissed Ginny last year, and kissed her often now that they were engaged.

None of it mattered because she'd never _seen_ him do those things. It was different. Strange. Awkward. Slightly painful in that way it was painful to watch a child take its first steps—it was change in its simplest form, and Hermione had to look away for a moment.

"Hermione?" Harry reached out for her, but Hermione didn't know what to do. She felt trapped, lost. She didn't want things to continue to change. She wanted everything to stay the same—everything except her and Malfoy.

She knew she wasn't being fair, but she'd been a slave to logic and reason for so long that she'd never realized when she'd switched masters. Now she was a slave to her emotions, and she didn't know quite how to deal with them.

Instead, she opted for whatever truth she had in her at the moment.

"What are we going to do, Harry?"

"With what?" Harry asked, extremely confused but trying to appear in control. It wasn't working.

"_Everything_," Hermione sighed deeply. Her hands shook, everything felt as though it was unraveling around her. "Recruitment at _Hogwarts?_ Can you imagine, Harry? Not just the Carrows—_more Death Eaters_."

"We'll get through this," Harry tried to feed Hermione some comfort through the heat of his hand on her shoulder. "We can get through anything, right?"

Hermione let out a slightly hysterical giggle, and shook her head solemnly.

"Why didn't he tell me?" Hermione asked quietly, though she knew that wasn't a question or concern that Harry could answer. She couldn't stop herself though. "Why didn't he tell me?" she repeated, a sadness settling deep inside of her.

Harry didn't say a word, and it was the best comfort he could have given her.

"Oi! Harry!" Seamus passed by them, and shouted his presence the way he did everything else in life: _fucking obnoxiously loudly_.

"Oi!" Harry responded back in that code-switching that boys tended to do when it came to each other.

"McGonagall's looking for you. The old lass looks a sight today, so you might not want to keep her waiting."

Harry nodded his thanks, and smiled slightly at Hermione. She nodded back, and watched him turn and leave in silence, the hallway swallowing him up the way it swallowed everyone. Hogwarts consumed, and people died and were reborn within its halls.

In that silence, she saw them for what they truly were: a red giant, in its last stages of its life, but fighting valiantly to stay alive. She wondered how many millions of years they had in them before they exploded, or transformed.

* * *

"What in the hell is wrong with you?" Hermione stormed into the Slytherin common room, her curls bouncing in that bushy manner of hers, and her chocolate eyes furious.

"All hail Granger," Draco replied caustically without looking up from his book as he lounged on the seat closest to the fire. Blaise and Tilly were on the loveseat, across from him, watching with hungry eyes. Gossips, the both of them. "Queen of uncouth behavior and all sentences _nagging_."

Blaise barked out a laugh, while Tilly tried to suppress a smile. Her bare foot was resting against Blaise's leg, and Blaise's arm was thrown haphazardly across the top of the sofa behind her. They looked comfortable. _Married_.

_Too married_, and Hermione hated them secretly. But she knew the only reason they were so relaxed, and even sitting together at all was because the common room was empty. The sun had risen with a fierce glare, and practically the entire castle had gone stampeding outside to enjoy the rare bout of sunshine and heat.

"How could you _not_ tell me that Voldemort is recruiting at Hogwarts?" Hermione wouldn't be deterred. Her finger nails dug into her palm, and she could feel the skin breaking. _Good_. She needed the distraction, regardless of how minimal it was. She needed a reason to not lash out.

"I didn't realize that I answered to you," Draco drawled into his book, though there was a slight twitch when she'd said the Dark Lord's name. Blaise snickered, though he too was hiding behind a façade in an attempt to ignore what was so deeply ingrained into them. Tilly was not so tactful and quietly whispered to Blaise, "I thought you'd said that she'd gotten rid of that habit?"

Someone _really_ ought to teach Tilly to whisper better.

"What habit?" Draco finally looked up, amusement glinting in his eyes.

_Fuck_, she hated him. She hated him so much right now that she could scream. Didn't he see how horrible things were about to become? Didn't he know how much worse things were going to be for them?

"The _hell_ you don't, Malfoy!"

"Saying the Dark Lord's name."

Tilly and Hermione spoke simultaneously, and both turned to stare at each other owlishly. Blaise and Draco were clearly in an incorrigible mood and howled with laughter; it was needed to shake the tension out of their shoulders at such disrespect for the Dark Lord. Tilly saw the humor at face value, and giggled slightly after a moment, lightly hitting Blaise on the shoulder. They looked more married than Hermione and Draco _ever_ did.

It burned Hermione's chest to witness what others could have.

Draco turned to Hermione and saw the typical rage that had been missing these last couple of weeks (replaced by her pity and unfounded guilt—thank Merlin that was over), which was usually targeted at him. It made him feel good. Normal. As if they were back to the status quo.

But he also saw a singular type of jealousy, the kind that he'd felt countless times watching Saint Potter get even more fame and glory among their peers, get special treatment from most of the staff; how foolish he'd been to think that any of that mattered; how little he'd known to think that Harry Potter had anything he'd wanted…besides Hermione Granger.

Draco let the moment of humor and warmth leave him. He'd needed the laugh, but he needed Hermione to see that there was nothing that Blaise and Tilly had that she'd want.

"Walk with me," he said as he stood. It wasn't a suggestion, and Hermione couldn't simply abide by the command in silence.

"Yes, _Caesar_."

"I prefer Master, but it'll do," Draco smirked as he swept past her, the usual swagger back in place now that his body was fully healed.

"Malfoy," Hermione warned as they left the sanctity of the common room, but Draco grabbed her by the arm and pushed her into him.

They were chest to chest, nose to nose, and it'd been _too long_ since they let that fire filled with hate and acid consume them.

"Do you feel that, Granger?" Draco licked his lips.

"What?"

"Don't be obtuse," He pushed her against the wall, and let his body mold itself completely against hers. They were _one_ even when they weren't. "_Everything_ between us."

"What's your point, Malfoy?" Hermione spat, though she couldn't bring herself to deny their truth—not when she could feel a twisted desire forming in her gut. She tried to push him away, but he wouldn't be moved. Not yet. Not until she understood what had taken him too long to understand. "You won't distract me—Voldemort's _recruiting_, and you didn't tell me!"

"_My point_," Draco cut in savagely. He was born a dragon, king-bred, and he _dominated_ when he wanted to. "Is that you and I aren't Blaise and Tilly. We'll never be them, because we're _better_ than them. We're fucking _larger_ than them. _More_. More than they could ever bloody imagine in their wildest dreams—so don't come at me for not holding your hand like Potter."

"This has nothing to do with Harry!"

"This has _everything_ to do with Potter and you damn well know it. You saw Blaise and Tilly, but what you really saw was Gryffindor happiness—the shit you shared with Potter and Weasley. But that's not Blaise, and that's definitely not me. You think you want what Blaise and Tilly have?"

"I never said that!" Hermione started to struggle in earnest. She hated him, she _hated _him. But she did want what Tilly had—that level of ease that she knew could never exist with Draco. They were too different; they were too alike. "You're just trying to distract me, and it's not going to work. You _monster!_ They're children! These are _children_ he's recruiting!"

Draco swiftly turned her, her right cheek pressing against the cold stone wall. He let his lips burn her as they trailed alongside her neck up to her ear.

"Choose your battles, Granger," he whispered, and she stilled. This was them at their most organic, and their most transformed. "Choose your battles because I'm _so fucking tired_, and I can't keep fighting you, too."

She could hear the pain in his voice. It reminded her of the day they signed the marriage papers. How tortured he'd been, how brutal his pride had seemed.

But as she felt the heat of his body behind her, shielding her, and corrupting her, she knew there was no way Tilly _ever_ felt the things that Draco made her feel.

"Why didn't you tell me," Hermione said quietly, her fingers latching onto Draco's that were laying innocuously on her waist. She was desperate for answers. He was desperate for her to just _stop_ asking.

"Because I knew how you'd react," he answered honestly. His forehead fell forward onto her shoulder, his breath ragged from her struggle because even at their most tiresome, he wanted her. He _always_ wanted her. He'd never _not_ want her. "And it'd be premature. He's not recruiting here, yet."

"But he will? Soon?"

"Soon," Draco sighed, and backed up a little, but Hermione pushed back against him with her backside. She didn't want him further. Never that. Anything but that. "_Fuck, _Granger—anyone can walk right past."

Hermione looked away in shame. He was right. She needed to get a hold on her desire. She needed to get a grip on his hold on her.

But Draco couldn't stand to see Hermione embarrassed. It was strange, and he'd never admit it, but the only Hermione he wanted was the one that brought him to his knees, and so with a vicious "Fuck it!" and a sharp turn of her body, Draco lifted her against the wall and kissed her brutally as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

He kissed her like a man who was crazed and haunted, and she received his kisses like a fallen angel consumed by the most delightful sin.

Her skirt had ridden to the tops of her thighs, and they had to stop. They had to. This wasn't right. Anyone could see if they walked by.

They were going to stop. They weren't going to go _there_, but suddenly, somehow, she felt so full and _yes, yes, yes._

They were _definitely_ going _there_.

Draco's movements were quick and sharp, his breaths were puffy into her neck. Her moans were barely contained. Her body was on fire—he lit her on fire, and it was _too fucking good_.

He was nipping and biting, sucking and licking down until one of her breasts were completely exposed and her shirt had popped open. He was punishing her for her questions in the _best_ way possible.

"I love you," she sobbed into his lips as he drove harder and harder.

"I know, I know," he said frantically, bursting with pleasure as she dug her nails excruciatingly into his back. "_Fuck_, yes, yes, I'm yours."

This was the same as every other time. But it was different too.

They were toeing the line between performance, and reality, and neither would dare go back.

Footsteps could be heard, laughter echoing off the walls. _Not yet, please, please, not yet_, Hermione begged Merlin.

Draco couldn't care less who saw how soaked he was from her juices. He couldn't care less who witnessed how epically beautiful his wife's face was when she reached her peak. But he knew she'd care.

She'd care, and though he loved hurting her, he didn't ever want to cause her shame. So he abruptly pushed them into the nearest alcove, gripping her bottom so tightly that surely she'd bruise.

The laughter was louder now, closer. The _clicks_ and _clacks_ of shoes rose.

Hermione bit her lip—she was trying _so hard_ not to scream.

"You're mine, Granger," Draco pulled her hair and buried himself deeper. "Mine, so fucking _mine._"

"Yes, _yes_," Hermione groaned, her core fluttering. She loved the way he possessed her. She hated how much she loved it. And even in a moment like this, she could never forget how much she despised everything that he made her feel. "_Always, always._"

They were animals, they were so desperate and honest—_feral_ in their lovemaking. In the way they loved each other, if it could ever be called love.

But the noise was getting _too _close.

"Did you see Monica's face?"

"Psh, the bleedin' girl deserved that _langlock_ curse! She never shuts up!"

"You two need to start being nicer to people. Her father's on the Wizengamot, y'know."

"Fuckin' third years!" Draco recognized the voices, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. His body was waging war against him, and he knew he was losing the harder he drove into Hermione.

"Did you hear that?" One said, and all three stopped two steps away from the alcove Hermione and Draco were in.

Hermione started to panic, but her body was exploding—she was on fire, she must be, because _nothing_ in the universe could feel like this, could it?

Her hands were everywhere, and Draco's _presence_ was being imbedded into the very pores of her skin. She was his, so fucking his, that the earth could crash around them and—_yes, yes, yes_.

Draco bit into her neck violently, sadistically, and Hermione keened intensely, masochistically.

"What the—" the third years stepped forward, intent on finding the sounds—too innocent still to understand what they were hearing.

Hermione, shaking uncontrollably, and gasping from unrestrained pleasure, touched her wand to herself and Draco and performed _Muffliato_. Simultaneously, Draco muttered a quick incantation into the junction between Hermione's breasts, and suddenly they were invisible.

_More, more_. _Please, yes!_

Hermione, now that she knew they couldn't be heard let herself go—she let all of the anger that had riled inside of her fade into the air with her screams.

"I don't see anything there."

"Hmm, that is weird, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I could've _sworn_ that I heard someone—kinda like a baby Mandrake crying."

"What would a Mandrake be doing inside?"

"Oi! What would—" the three third years walked off as they brushed the incident off as one of those Hogwarts things.

Hermione and Draco couldn't have cared less if they'd stayed there all day long. Each thrust was powerful, each scream was penetrating, _connecting_.

"Say my name," Draco kissed her urgently. His lips bruised hers frantically, like long lost lovers. Perhaps they were—perhaps the two weeks that it'd taken him to fully recover, the two weeks that he'd been banished from being inside of her had torn at the very fabric of their world. "Say it—say it, Granger. Say my name, _fuck, please_—"

"_Draco_," Hermione cried passionately. She would have done anything to not see him beg, though she derived a sick pleasure from knowing he begged only her. "_Draco, Draco—don't stop, don't stop—Draco!" _

Draco didn't stop. He'd never stop loving her this hard. He'd never stop living life inside of her this hard. Because there'd never been another option for him. Not since the day he realized, sick to his stomach, that he craved Hermione Granger. Not since the first time their lips ached to fight against one another.

His name was heaven on her tongue.

"Take it, Granger," Draco demanded fervently. "Take all of me."

She did.

She did, and he could feel herself engulfing him completely. Just like she could feel him giving himself up to her. It was too much, and it would never be enough.

Hermione crashed onto him like a tidal wave during a tsunami—brutally, cruelly, _hard_. Her scream was _so_ sharp, _so _vicious, that the _Muffliato_ broke, and her scream echoed down the hallway.

Draco let her screams of pleasure bathe him, and wash him anew. He was redeemed inside of her, _by_ _her_. He rode that wave until he was pulsing and pushing, sinking and diving, _letting go completely_ inside of her; he was the ideal image of Adonis in ecstasy.

If only they could be this way when they weren't joined. If only they could feel this way, this complete, all of the time.

Their breaths were shallow and ragged as they clung to each other, letting the haze of desire slowly lift away like the sun breaking through fog.

"It's not okay," Hermione whispered into his neck, her lips grazing his skin. "It's _not_ okay that Death Eaters are recruiting _kids_."

Draco sighed, touched his palm to her face. He lifted her face by the chin, and looked her directly in the eyes—melding into each other like a pair of swords over a blazing fire.

"No," he agreed. "It's _not_ okay, Granger. But _none_ of this is okay."

"They're _kids_," she tried to plead with him. Her fingers gripped at his forearms, silently asking him to _fix this_. But he'd learnt to pick his battles long ago. "They're _just kids_," she repeated, as though by simple repetition she could sway him.

But he was a Dragon, _born under fire_, and he didn't feel the kind of compassion she did. He simply wasn't capable of it. Not for people he didn't consider a part of his immediate world.

_They're just kids_.

"So are we, Granger," Draco reminded her softly, though he knew he was hitting her with the edge of the sword of truth and not the point. "So are we."

She pushed him away, furious, and they were suddenly disconnected. Her body ached deliciously, but Hermione paid it no heed, not when she was so livid.

It didn't matter that he spoke the truth. They _were_ just kids themselves—barely adults. But Hermione hated how he gave her truths in order to excuse inaction.

She walked away, unable to meet his eyes, and Draco stood still, trousers undone, his manhood glistening with Hermione's passion, proof that they weren't always married enemies, watching as she walked away.

* * *

"You want me to what?" Harry spat indignantly.

The soft candlelight in McGonagall's office cast shadows on the wall that danced and spun. These shadows taunted Harry, made him feel small—he _must_ be as small as he felt for McGonagall to ask such a horrible thing of him.

"Now, Mister Potter," McGonagall tried to reason sympathetically, but her features didn't lend themselves to such gentleness. Not when there was a war. Not when there was so much going on that Hermione Granger _knew_ of, and wouldn't share. "I know this seems especially vile, considering who Miss Granger is to you—"

"Do you know, Professor?" Harry asked accusingly. He wanted to break things like he had in Dumbledore's office last year, but this wasn't then and McGonagall wasn't Dumbledore. Instead, Harry sat stiffly in the chair across from the Headmistress, leg bouncing restlessly. "Do you _really_ know what you're asking of me?"

"I and the Order are asking you to help the cause—the same cause you were so eager to join." McGonagall stared at him sternly, but he wouldn't be cowed. Not now. Not with this.

"You're asking me to _spy_ on my best friend," Harry clarified harshly. McGonagall pursed her lips, and Harry felt a twinge of satisfaction. "You're asking me to _betray_ the _only_ person who has _always_ stood by me, who has _always_ believed me when _no one_ else did."

The stab at McGonagall's own failings was clear, but she ignored the jab for the sake of honesty and the cause.

"No, Harry," Remus stepped out from the shadows, and lifted the disillusionment charm.

It was dangerous and highly impractical for Remus to be in Hogwarts at all, but everyone knew that if there were anyone who could convince Harry left alive, it was Remus.

"Remus?" Harry stared at him in astonishment and disbelief. He took in Remus' shabby dark clothes, and his unruly hair. Here was a Marauder, one of the original, a product of betrayal, standing and asking Harry to betray his best friend. He couldn't believe it. He _wouldn't_ believe it. His heart couldn't handle it if it were true. "What are you doing here?"

"You know, Harry."

Remus' eyes peered at him with sorrow, but his shoulders were stiff and straight with fortitude; he knew what had to be done.

"How could you ask me to do this?" Harry stood furiously, all measure of composure gone. The air crackled around him, he was so upset. "You, who were betrayed by _your_ best friend—how could you ask me to do this?"

"This isn't about the past, Harry," Remus tried to reach him, but he was thrown by the eyes that belonged to Lily. He was stuck in the middle of the past and the present. He tried to shake it off nonetheless. "This is about the very _present_ war that we'll lose, Harry—and we will lose if we don't have information. There's only so much Snape can give us. Only so much other sources can help with. Hermione's in a prime position—"

"To do what?!" Harry exploded.

He remembered Hermione's hug as she tackled him at the feast at the end of Second Year. Her wild hair curling around his face and neck, reminding him that she was _alive _and remembered his palpable fear seeing her body motionless on the floor at the Department of Ministries. Her stillness had been like the earth had fallen from beneath his own feet. He remembered her tears at Dumbledore's funeral, how heartbroken she looked, as though everything they'd known was forever lost. Maybe she'd known something he hadn't, because right now, as Harry looked upon his dead father's best friend, everything he'd known to be true was gone, vanished into the ever changing war.

His fury only grew with this feeling of inadequacy.

"To do _what_?!" Harry yelled at Remus. "She's not a Death Eater! How much help could she possibly _be_? She doesn't have direct access to Voldemort. She's not in the inner circle. What could she _possibly_ give you that Snape can't?"

"Harry," Remus approached him as though he were a wounded animal. Perhaps he was. Maybe he'd gotten so good at pretending that everything was fine, _okay_, that he'd convinced himself of the lie. "Her husband's a Malfoy. Even without being inducted into the inner circle, she's still privy to things that Snape isn't—things that Voldemort talks to Malfoy about that he doesn't talk to Snape about."

"Are you telling me that Malfoy's got more pull than Snape who was a part of the first war?" Harry glowered incredulously.

"This isn't about influence," Remus shook his head, his steady gaze filled with golden flecks from the full moon that was to come in a week. "This is about rumors that Draco Malfoy might be Voldemort's heir. And as his heir there are things that Voldemort will share with him, or talk about in front of him, that Snape just isn't in a position to know or overhear."

Harry's anger never stood a chance against cold, hard logic. But that didn't mean that he was going to back down. This was _Hermione_. _His 'Mione_. His never-gonna-let-him-down, always-got-his-back, from-heaven-to-hell-and-back-again _best friend_. In what universe would it ever be _just_ to betray her?

"Rumors aren't fact," he chastised Remus as gently as he could. But there was a hard edge to his tone that couldn't be mistaken. He wouldn't apologize for it, either. Not when they were the ones at fault. Never mind that he wanted to question why Voldemort would even need an heir if he'd made himself almost immortal with horcruxes—that wasn't a piece of information he was willing to share with the Order. "How many rumors have flown around about me? C'mon, Remus. You should better than anyone that most of the time rumors are just smoke."

"But where there's smoke, there must have been fire," Remus reasoned calmly in that ever-patient way of his. "I'm not saying that he's Voldemort's heir for sure, but we can't ignore the possibility just because it might not be true."

"What would Voldemort even need an heir for?" Harry ran his hand through his hair roughly.

"You're asking the wrong person."

"What does this even have to do with Hermione? Sure, okay, let's say for a bloody _insane_ moment that Malfoy's Voldemort's heir. Where does Hermione fit in?"

"Harry," Remus said his name in that _duh_ tone that made him automatically want to turn about face and leave. "They're married."

"Yeah. And?"

"They talk."

"Okay?"

Remus's face flushed slightly, awkward at having to go _there_ with his dead best friend's son.

"Married people _talk_."

"So? I talk to people every day, doesn't mean I'll suddenly tell them my deep, dark secrets. They may be married but they're not _friends_—"

"He means _pillow talk_, Mister Potter," McGonagall interjected exasperatedly, her fingers interlaced in that stern and perfunctory way of hers. "Pillow talk where quiet tongues tend to wag."

Harry was stunned. Then disgusted. Then _horrendously _affronted that Headmistress McGonagall, a woman that was practically ancient in his book, had just used the word "pillow talk" in his presence with a completely straight face.

"Oh Merlin," all the blood rushed to Harry's face.

"My thoughts exactly," McGonagall raised an eyebrow, unamused. "Now, hopefully, you understand the situation we are all in. We _know_ that there are things, _important_ things that Miss Granger knows that she's not sharing with the Order. She believes she is protecting her husband. She may be right, but the Order _still_ needs to know, regardless of her allegiance to Mister Malfoy."

"Will you help us, Harry?" Remus pushed. It was honestly now or never. If they couldn't get Harry to agree now, with so many questions and suspicions hanging in the air, they'd never be able to get him to agree. He remembered too easily a time in the first war when suspicions against Sirius' character had caused Remus to turn on him; the guilt still ate at him sometimes. But it had been his choice to make, and he'd made it, just for the prospect of peace, the fragrance of it that was akin to the smell of the earth on a full moon. "I know it's a hard choice, but we need to know what she knows."

"What makes you think she'll even tell me, if she hasn't told you?"

The question was brutal; the answer was just as harsh, but Remus wouldn't lie to Harry. Not if he didn't have to. He wouldn't lie, even if it the truth was crueler.

"You said it yourself, this is for the Order," Harry pushed, enraged and helpless all at the same time. "Why would she tell me anything knowing that I'm with the Order."

"Because she loves you," Remus stated quietly. But there was no doubt in his voice or eyes. "She loves you just as much as you love her, and so she'd _want_ to tell you."

Harry's chest burned with acid and resentment. They were supposed to be the good guys. They were supposed to be above it all. They were supposed to be _better_ than the Death Eaters, but war makes monsters of us all.

But not Harry. Not Hermione. Not _them_. They were best friends. Anyone but them.

"We need an answer now, Mister Potter," McGonagall's features softened slightly. She didn't wish to hurt him, but this was their only viable option if Shacklebolt wasn't willing to offer consideration to Draco Malfoy.

"This is _wrong_," Harry whispered, disillusioned with the adults around him. "You know this is."

"This is war," Remus said simply, hands clenched tightly in the pockets of his black trousers.

He had too many scars to extend pity to Harry, though he loved the boy dearly. But the truth of it all was that everyone gave up something to play their part, even Malfoy had given something up. Harry wasn't the first to say good-bye to his innocent heart, and he wouldn't be the last.

But he was Harry Potter, and there wasn't a world in the universe where his innocent heart would crumble and chip away.

He nodded stiffly his assent.

"You've made the right choice, Mister Potter," McGonagall sighed in relief. The tired lines of her face were prominent. "Miss Granger doesn't know it, but she'll thank you once this war is over."

No, Harry Potter's innocent heart could never buckle beneath the pressure of darkness, but it could harden.

"Malfoy."

"What?" McGonagall and Remus asked simultaneously.

"Her name," Harry said stonily as he turned and showed them his back, a protective fire raging in his eyes though he tried to hide it. "It's Hermione _Malfoy_, now."

The door slammed shut behind him, the disturbed glances of McGonagall and Remus shut away. Because, yes, he was Harry Potter, and she was Hermione Malfoy, and they were _still_ best friends, and they always would be.

* * *

"You know, you really shouldn't taunt her that way," Blaise smirked mischievously.

"What can I say? I prefer her pissed" Draco said as he walked back into the common room. He didn't bother to sit, though. He was too on edge after their tryst in the hallway.

He was too _moved_, and damn her to hell and back if he didn't feel like he'd failed her somehow.

But she was only his wife. She was only slowly becoming _everything_.

"She's not the only one who's worried though," Blaise said somberly. He leaned against the wall, next to the fireplace, his hands inside of his pockets.

"What have you heard?"

"A lot and nothing much," Blaise shrugged. "People are scared—scared that they'll be picked to join."

"No one can be forced," Draco frowned severely as he leaned against the back of a black leather sofa. "I'm not the poster boy for recruitment considering how I joined to begin with, but you can't be forced."

"But the Dark Side isn't exactly against giving a friendly push," Blaise gave him a knowing look. They both knew he was right. They both knew that this wasn't a problem that either cared too much about.

"Unless you've suddenly turned into a compassionate person," Draco gave him a pointed look, "there's no reason to actually talk about this. So why do I care?"

"If Death Eaters come recruiting, it's going to get messy."

"Spit it out, Blaise," Draco pursed his lips, in annoyance.

"Right now it's tense, but there's a balance. The Carrows are already pushing things as it is. If more Death Eaters come into Hogwarts? It's going to get out of hand, _fast_."

"People aren't doing much now," Draco shrugged, unconcerned. But his head wasn't focused. His body was still thrumming from Hermione's touch—from the heat inside of her that trapped him so easily.

But Blaise could read his friend like his own palm. They were brothers, and nothing could ever be hidden from one to the other.

"Fucking _focus_, Draco!" Blaise snarled, all good humor and nonchalance lost from his features. "People aren't doing much now? More like you don't _see_ people doing much, because you're too high up in Granger's arse to actually see anything going on _in_ Hogwarts—don't even try to deny it. I get it, okay? I get it. Between Granger, the Wizengamot, and the Dark Lord, you're up to your ears with problems. But there's still shit going on around here. Longbottom and bloody _Daphne_ have started taking care of the younger years—trying to patch them up after class with the Carrows. Even Tracy Davis and that weird-looking bloke from Hufflepuff have started making rounds at night to make sure no one's being crucio'd in the hallway."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that people are banning together—it's not _extreme_, not yet, but people are. The house rivalries that've practically defined Hogwarts, and our lives in Hogwarts are disappearing. It's not about that, not anymore. The firsties, especially the ones without older siblings who've been to school here, just think it's always been like this. But you know better. The rest of us—we _all_ know better. In what universe would Daphne be in cahoots with Longbottom? Things are changing, brother. Things are changing, and if more Death Eaters are thrown into the fray…" his voice trailed off for a moment.

Their heartbeats were war drums; their eyes were unafraid; their shoulders were slightly stooped; they were mirror images of each other flying on a broomstick into the eye of a storm.

"People are already gearing up for a fight," he finally said with a shake of his head at Draco. "You can feel it, I know you can. It's in the bloody air."

They stared at each other, the silence settling between them.

_Choose your battles,_ he'd told Hermione. He'd meant it, and this wasn't a battle he was willing to fight. Not today. Not with the Dark Lord.

"If more Death Eaters show up, we'll deal with it then," Draco finally said with a sigh.

"We can't just ignore what's happening," Blaise frowned, his smooth, dark skin creasing at his forehead. "We can't bury our heads, not with this."

_Choose your battles_.

The Dark Mark on his arm burned, and Draco hissed in response. Blaise nodded his head stiffly, silently telling him he wasn't angry that Draco needed to go, but that this conversation wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

But as Draco turned to go, Blaise couldn't help himself.

"When they come, whose side will you choose? Because you'll have to make a choice, don't doubt it. You'll have to choose—whose side will you be on?"

Draco tensed, but he kept his silence.

_Choose your battles_.

He left the common room, his heart beating furiously in dread, as Blaise stood still, hands in his pockets, wondering what would become of them all.

A creak on the stairs snapped Blaise's eyes to attention. There Tilly stood, recently pressed clothes, immaculate as always, so beautiful that it could be painful sometimes, with a worried look upon her face. It hurt Blaise that he'd put that look there. It hurt him that he couldn't offer her a better world, a _safer_ world.

"Whose side will _you_ choose?" Tilly asked quietly, uncharacteristically somber. It was the only question that truly mattered for this pair. _Their_ survival.

Blaise huffed out a cynical and bitter laugh. "I choose Draco's side. Whatever side that may be."

Because they were brothers, the dragon and the prince, and it mattered. Tilly's eyes burned, because she'd been afraid that would be Blaise's answer. Fear saturated Tilly's naturally carefree heart; somewhere in her bones she knew that Blaise's loyalty to Draco would condemn them all.

* * *

Hermione walked furiously through the dimly lit halls, the heels of her sensible shoes _clicking_ and _clacking_ as she stormed through Hogwarts. She was so upset with Draco. Then again, she knew that with so much vitriol between them, she could just as easily be moaning into the chilly night air if Draco had taken it upon himself to force the issue and continue their conversation in their bedroom.

It was strange and startling how easy their pain could be masked by hate, how quick they were to mask their hate with passion, how smooth the transition from one end of the spectrum to the other was for them.

It didn't matter that Malfoy had a point. It didn't matter that Hermione suddenly felt so _heavy_, so brittle. All that mattered was that Malfoy had power—he could do something, something more than she could, and he refused to act.

It didn't matter that he had acted for her with the Muggleborn Registration Act—that was then. _Before_. Now, despite her response to the Order, she expected more from him. She knew she shouldn't. Hermione knew, like the Earth itself knew when it was falling out of gravity of the sun, that she'd be disappointed, that she was setting herself up for disillusionment. But how could she protect herself from hope?

She knew she was being irrational, but the halls were closing in on her, the dark shadows were taunting her with _crucios_ and vile smirks. She could see Death Eaters everywhere. Hermione could feel their hot breath on her skin, giving her goosebumps, and she recoiled from the slight breeze.

The castle, her first love with its bright candles and magical ceilings, was transforming before her eyes into an entity unrecognizable. It was an outrage that had settled deep in her bones, so much so that she couldn't dispel it, couldn't simply shake it off, regardless of how much she wanted to.

She needed a distraction—one that wasn't fighting, or fucking.

She went to pass by yet another daunting hallway, when she heard Luna's voice. She couldn't deal with Luna's ethereal nature, not right then. If the girl had mentioned even one nonsensical creature, Hermione was sure she'd explode or shatter. Honestly, with so many emotions running rampant through her, she'd be just as liable to burst into tears as she was to give Luna an unseemly crushing set-down.

_Choose your battles_, _Granger, _Draco had said. _Choose your battles_.

Hermione went to continue on her way because this was one battle she could do without. But then she heard Harry's voice. They were talking, but Hermione didn't understand. She was too far away, and the conversation seemed incredibly private, if their touching knees were any indication.

Without thought, Hermione quietly disillusioned herself and tip-toed over. Luckily they weren't under _Muffliato_, though Hermione scowled at Harry's recklessness. She sat across from them, kneeling as slow as molasses so neither would notice the slight shift in the wall.

Once she settled herself, knees crossed (which took _forever_ to do at a snail's pace), their original conversation had shifted to something much more intimate to Hermione.

"They said that Malfoy is going to be named Voldemort's heir. That Hermione knows all about it, and a helluva lot more, and is trying to protect Malfoy—that she's not on our side…I told McGonagall that I'd spy on Hermione—find out what she knows for the Order," Harry's jaw clenched, and unclenched. His eyes were bright, and Hermione couldn't breathe. This was definitely _not_ the kind of distraction she'd wanted. But she could do nothing else but sit, listen, and pray to Merlin that nothing was as it seemed.

"Really? Hmm," Luna reacted in her typical non-reactive way. "Are you actually going to?"

"No," he said firmly. "But I had a feeling that they wouldn't back off unless I said 'yes.' _Fuck_, what's happening to us, Luna? What's happening to everyone? Since when is it par for the course to expect people to betray their friends for a bloody cause?"

"It's a new world, Harry," Luna smiled sadly at him. Her eyes twinkled and swirled with all the mysteries of heaven and earth. "I believe in you, and I'm glad that you made the _right_ choice. But why did you? Why are willing to burn for her?"

"I was there," Harry looked past Luna, into the past that spun in his mind's eye. He could see it, all of it, all of the decisions, and the mistakes. He could feel the beat of the past in the drumming of his heart. "The night she had her first kiss—with Victor Krum the night of the Yule Ball."

"I thought that night had ended in disaster because of Ron?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded, a bitter-sweet smile on his lips. "So had I, and so I went back downstairs. Thought I'd catch her crying on the stairs still, or maybe—I don't know. But I didn't find her wherever I expected her. So I walked around a bit, just searching for her, because, well, she's _'Mione_, and she was upset. And in what universe would I have ever just let that go?"

"Where was she?"

"Outside, with Krum. They were under the stars like some bad romance novel, the kind Ginny _loves_, and I could just tell, y'know. They were too close, too serious, too oblivious of the fact that it was freezing out there. I knew they were going to kiss—that he was going to kiss her, that she was going to have her _first_ kiss."

"You stayed?" Luna asked, her eyes aberrantly focused and shining with surprise.

"Yea," Harry blushed a bit. He knew how it sounded. But he needed her to understand. He needed her to know, because she was Luna and she always knew and understood. "I could've left. I could've turned around and walked away, left her alone, but she's _Hermione_. She's always been around for all of my big firsts after we met. The first time I flew on a broom. The first time I cried since I was a little kid—when I found out that Sirius had supposedly betrayed my parents. The first time I won a Quidditch match. The first time I did a successful spell. The first time I had a crush. Just—just a lot of firsts, y'know? She's always been there. And I just—I wanted to be with her for some of her firsts, too. I didn't want her to be alone, even if she didn't know I was there. She deserves that. She's _earned_ that, because she's never left me alone."

Hermione's eyes glistened with tears as she overheard Harry's story. She understood too well, because she'd stood outside the door in their Fifth Year while he had his first kiss with Cho. She'd left the room intending to leave completely, but she was Hermione and he was Harry, and she couldn't leave him alone in such a big moment, even though she'd wanted to.

She'd felt weird, like she'd been breaking some kind of code, but she'd held her ground. She loved him too much to leave him alone in such a momentous moment in his life.

Now she knew he must love her that much too, and it was the warmest feeling in the world.

"Is that why you went to her wedding?"

"How'd you know? I was polyjuiced," Harry grinned wickedly at Luna. She constantly surprised him, and he never tired of it.

"In what universe would you not be there for her _biggest_ first?" Luna smiled back at him.

Luna understood, and Harry Potter was blessed. He _felt_ blessed.

Hermione could only watch in silence as Harry was bathed in grace, alighted by Luna's special love for him.

In that moment, Hermione comprehended what she may never have if she hadn't been witness to this conversation; she grasped how much Luna must love Harry Potter to _always_ be on his side. She understood how special their relationship must be, must have always been.

Not special the way hers and Harry's were—never _more_, just _different_.

It was in this same instance that Harry understood the same thing…and so Hermione was there for another first. Even if neither knew.

* * *

Hermione knew that she should wait until they were in the sanctity of their bedroom. She knew that it was the only place they could _truly_ talk, but the second Harry and Luna left, she'd lifted the disillusionment charm and went sprinting towards the quidditch pitch.

It was nearing 9:00pm, and she knew she would find Draco on the pitch, practicing in the dark. It was ridiculous, really, since unless there was a game at night, there weren't any _optio_ lights in the air to light up the pitch.

She sent up a spark that crashed into his broom, and sent him spiraling. His broom, his beautiful Nimbus 2000, was probably the most precious thing he owned besides his damned whiskey.

It was a bad idea the second she did it, and it was clear when he landed, his grey eyes alight with rage.

"Are you bloody mental, woman?!" Draco said dangerously softly. Too dangerous. Too soft.

But Hermione squared her shoulders, and prepared herself. "Anything you'd like to tell me, Malfoy?"

"No, I haven't fucked every girl in our year."

"_What?_" That was most definitely _not_ where Hermione had been heading.

"Isn't that how those conversations always go?" Draco plopped himself on to the cold ground, waved a quick and silent warming charm, and plucked a book from his back pocket. He was trying to control his anger by masking it with nonchalance, but there was a little too much bite in his words. "You ask me if there's anything I want to tell, I say 'no,' you then proceed to accuse me of sleeping with every girl in our year, and I vehemently deny it."

"Isn't there something else, _more pressing_," Hermione said through gritted teeth. "That you've forgotten to tell me? Something I'd actually _care_ to know."

"Granger, I'm sure there's _lots_ that you don't fucking know," Draco opened the book, and leaned on his forearm.

"Don't play games, Malfoy!" Hermione seethed. She wouldn't let this go. Not this. Anything but _this_. "When were you going to tell me!" she grabbed at the front of his cloak, and hauled him to his feet. It was aggressive and unwarranted, but she wanted him angry; if he was angry, then he was at least being honest.

"Fuck me! Granger," Draco exploded uncharacteristically. She knew she'd pushed him too far, but she wasn't willing to back down now. Frankly, she wasn't willing to back down ever. "What in the bloody hell is your problem?"

"My problem?" Hermione shoved him with all her might. He barely budged, and it simply infuriated her further. "My _problem, you unimaginable bastard_, is that you're going to be crowned heir! Heir! To _Voldemort!_"

"Are we really going to have this discussion about His name?" Draco said icily. _Fuck_, he hated Voldemort, but he was still his Lord, and he was due respect, despite how much he hated the man. "I thought Snape cured you of that habit," he purposefully used Tilly's words simply to annoy Hermione further.

"Guess courage is a hard habit to kick," Hermione snapped. She was in no mood for levity.

"So is foolishness, I hear," he said pointedly.

_Choose your battles_. She didn't want to yield, but this was one battle that she'd already thrown long ago, the night she'd gone to Malfoy Manor.

Draco saw the acquiescence in her eyes, and it was enough. He went back to the book he had in his hand, though he didn't try to sit back down. It was honestly a surprise that he didn't have a glass of whiskey in the other.

"Take a breath, Granger. You should know that rumors are hardly ever true."

"You didn't answer my question."

Draco smiled slowly, genuinely appreciative of her astuteness. It was a typical Slytherin answer: purposefully misleading, but not inaccurate or untrue.

He looked up, and fell into the eyes of his wife, and _fuck_, did he want her. But now wasn't about that. It _couldn't_ be about that, because there was so much middle ground to cover if the beginning of this conversation was any indication.

"Ask me a question for which I have an answer."

"Are you actually saying that you don't know?"

"I'm saying that no one's told _me_ that I'm the Dark Lord's heir."

"Stop talking in circles, Malfoy!"

"I wasn't aware there were other ways to talk."

Hermione huffed, exasperated and irate. "Okay, _fine_. Let's say you're not _the Dark Lord'_s heir. Why would he need an heir at all?"

"Hell if I know, Granger," Draco let out a breathy laugh, the kind that always drove desire through Hermione's belly. But she wouldn't be swayed by the delicious sins his lips promised. Not when _this mattered_. She wouldn't be the only woman he's ever begged if she did. "You need to let this incessant need to _know everything_ go. We're not that high up on the food chain on either side to know this kind of shit."

"Well, if you're going to be heir, then _you'll_ certainly be that high up," she growled, pushing him with every utterance.

"What do you want from me?" Draco asked, annoyed and fuming that his little time of peace had been disturbed. Between classes, duties with the Wizengamot, his friends, the _Carrows_, his wife, and meetings with the Dark Lord, Draco barely ever found a chance to be alone, let alone have any sort of peace. Riding his broom, pretending that the only thing that mattered was being weightless, was the only kindness he afforded himself. Now, even that had been ruined by _her_. "What could you _possibly_ want from me?"

"I want you to be the man you were when you stood up to the Registration law!" she yelled at him, not caring who walked by and heard them. This late at night, this far out on the pitch, she was highly doubtful that anyone would come. "I want you to be—"

"Someone else!" Draco snarled, sick and tired of Hermione's self-righteous attitude. "We've had this conversation a thousand times, so why don't we talk about what we haven't touched on before—let's talk about you. You want me change? What about taking a long, hard look in the mirror, _dear wife_, because from where I'm standing you're not that fucking high on the pedestal!"

"That's not fair and you know it," Hermione glared at him. This wasn't about her. This was about his dishonesty. His inability to tell her the truth about their lives, because his life affected her, now. "I'm trying my best."

"So am I," Draco ran his hand through his hair, and she could feel exhaustion and fatigue permeating into the very air around them. It was trying to drown them. But they were born fighters, and they'd fight until their very last breath. They'd claw, scratch, and curse their way to freedom. If only they knew how to be free of themselves, the burden of their own souls. "What's really got your knickers in a twist, Granger? And don't fucking hit me with all of your morality bullshit that you like to spit like you're being paid to say it. _Really_."

She went to speak, but they were close again, and his eyes were cutting into her very flesh, tearing her down, tying her to the truth and nothing else. Seamlessly, her brain was crawling with images that she'd buried. The first time she did accidental magic. The first time she had ever hugged Ron. The way Draco had leaned into her touch when he'd been broken and bleeding. The way her body had shivered when she had kneeled in front of Voldemort.

Hermione's mind tried to erect walls, but she wasn't as fast or as good at this as Draco was. Finally, _finally_, she'd been able to push him out of her mind, and she felt breathless, as though she'd ran a thousand miles.

"That was out of line," she scowled. Her eyes glimmered with disgust, and pain. Pain at so many things that she couldn't even fathom to name them all. "You had _no right_ to do that!"

"You're my _wife_," Draco ground out. He was still, like a statue. His eyes were tiny mirrors of icebergs. _This_ was the man she knew was hiding behind the ardent words in the throes of passion, and swift smirks. _This_ was her Death Eater husband, and she'd rather see him any day than the façade he wore. "And until you learn to _properly_ shield yourself, which you should be practicing _daily_, I'll do _that_ whenever the hell I want."

"You're a monster!" Hermione turned to leave, but Draco grabbed at her arm, and hauled her back. They were in this now, and neither were going to back away. Draco wouldn't let them.

"Yeah, okay," he snarled. "I'll be the monster. But you still haven't said one honest thing here tonight. You bloody well came here looking for something so we're going to hash this one out, Granger, right here, right now."

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Hermione sighed. Her eyes took in all of him; his downturned lips, his furrowed brows, the anxious tick in his jaw, and the intensity of his gaze. That gaze that filled her and made her feel perpetually hollow. "What do you want me to say?"

"Just—_stop_ with the moral high-ground," he said quietly. His grip turned from iron into a warm comforting hand, a cocoon that was welcoming instead of destructive.

He searched her stare, trying to find the links he couldn't see. He knew that what he'd seen through occlumency had the answers hidden there, he just wasn't sure what to make of it all; that was the problem with occlumency sometimes—it could show the events, the emotions tied to the events, but the legilimens had to be able to _read_ the information. Sometimes he could, and other times, especially with Hermione, he couldn't.

A silence, so powerful, threatened to overcome them. But Hermione was brave. Hermione was strong. She was _fucking Hermione Malfoy,_ and she'd never shy away from her own truth again. Not since before her wedding. Not since she understood that she was better than that.

"I remember what you looked like after the Dark Lord—after the Registration Law passed," Hermione stated. She tried to be matter-of-fact, but this was too close to home. Too important to exist without emotions entangling itself into the very fiber of the words. "_He_ did that to you. _He_, that _monster_, tried to be _break_ you. And what? I'm supposed to sit here and watch as you prostrate yourself to him? _I'm_ supposed to kneel at his feet, too?"

"We do what we have to, to survive," Draco lifted his hand and smoothed down some of her wilder curls. It was sweet, and she sort of resented him, because just as he was sweet, he could be even crueler. "There's no shame or glory in surviving."

"Are we though?" Hermione laid her hand on his chest. She wanted to feel him, feel the weight of his heartbeat underneath her palm as she asked him the most important question she'd asked him all day. "Are we _just_ surviving? Because being heir? That's not just surviving. That feels a lot like becoming _Icarus_, and we both know what happened to him."

"Look, the heir thing really is just a rumor—one that I'm pretty sure the blasted Order started on some bad intel," Draco tried to reassure Hermione. He wasn't great at it, but he tried, and she could see that he was trying.

"And if it's not just smoke and mirrors? What then?"

"I don't even know why _you're_ worried! You're protected, untouchable," Draco responded, honestly perplexed. "However that pans out, whatever comes from it, you're still the wife of a Death Eater. You _can't_ be touched."

"But the second you fall from grace, I'm down there with you, and suddenly I'm not _so_ untouchable," Hermione retorted without a second of hesitation.

Just like that, Draco knew _this_ had been the problem all along.

Hermione looked away in shame. She should've been worried about his life. She should've been worried about the impact of all of this in the war, in the Light Side's chance of winning.

Instead, she'd been selfishly thinking about her own life, her own survival.

She'd become like everyone else. She'd become like everyone she'd despised and thought inferior.

But Draco wouldn't judge her for being human.

He kissed her slowly, like the way butterflies land on flowers. He kissed her with kindness and compassion, which was so foreign to _them_. He kissed her like he could love her, if only she'd let herself be loved.

"Listen, Granger," Draco let his words hang between them until they'd taken root deep in her subconscious. "I would fucking _die_, be twelve feet under the bloody ground, before I'd let _anyone_ touch you. I'd watch the world become ashes and dust first. _De magia et fides_."

His word was his bond, and he was asking her to believe him. To believe that his position within the Death Eater ranks wouldn't have any bearing on her safety.

She knew it wasn't true. It couldn't be true. It was too _Dumbledore_ of an outcome to be reality. Draco had been the one to teach her that Dumbledore's world wasn't the _real_ world. That all things didn't end well because they believed it would.

_Choose your battles, Granger_.

She knew it wasn't true.

She nodded her head and chose to believe him anyway. She chose to _believe in him_, anyway, because he was Draco Malfoy and like Narcissa said: _the heavens will never abandon their dragon_.

* * *

Soo, what do you think? Anwyho, liked it? Hated it? Let me know and review! **Reviews are love**


	11. The Crossing of Minds and Hearts

Disclaimer – I own nothing

A.N –Hey guys! So life has been super hectic, and writing this chapter has taken so much out of me, but hopefully it was all worth it and you all enjoy it! Eeek! Buckle up because here we go, folks. **Sidenote**: I am fully aware that Neville's birthday is in July in canon, but I sort of forgot while writing the outline of the story, and this chapter, and so for the sake of this story, his birthday is in November—don't shoot!

I'd like to give a massive THANK YOU and I'M SO GLAD YOU'RE IN MY LIFE to my beta and friend **ellabelle12! **Without your honesty this chapter wouldn't be what it is and without your moral support, last semester of school would've been on another level of hell. :*

To **whitewallskill**, **LABM**, **Guest (1)**, **Beth**, **CheshyreGrin**, **not yo gurl**, **BoredRavenvlaw620**, ** .go**, **anon**, **YEY**, **Natural-BohoChick**, **viola1701e**, **LightninghtRose**, **Evanelle**, **accio-echo**, **xXMizz Alec VolturiXx**, **Kyonomiko**, **Nargles Inspector**, **ashenrenee**, **Guest (2)**, **Jhuffy**, **Guest (3)**, **Nichole O**, **Mistress DragonFlame**, **roni2010**, **Scaleybark**, **MrsMorgan813**, **pgoodrichboggs**, **oblivionbaby**, **olivieblake**, **Gnoloo**, **WarMad13**, **kitcatscratch**, **brigittar: **You guys are the light in my dark tunnel when I'm writing. Your kind words inspire me to keep writing, and that is the greatest gift I could ever ask for. You are each one of you, with your lovely words and your criticism, my muse. I can't express enough how happy your reviews make me, except to say that I really do re-read them often. I've spent months working on this chapter, and I seriously hope it's up to par, and that you guys enjoy it! :)

/_I found the Devil, I found him in a lover_

_And his lips like tangerines, and his color coded speak_

_Now we're lost somewhere in outer space, in a hotel room where demons play_

_They run around beneath our feet, we roll around beneath these sheets_

_I've got a lover, a love like religion—I'm such a fool for sacrifice_

_It's coming down, down, coming down/_

-Coming Down, Halsey

Chapter 11 – The Crossing of Minds and Hearts

The sweat dripped off Draco's forehead as his body heat rose higher and higher, the longer he ran.

_Screams. _

_Blood. _

_Never stop running_, because if he stopped then he had to accept that he was a monster. If he stopped he'd have to understand; not just know, but truly _comprehend_ on the deepest level that he was _scum_.

He spilt blood like he drowned himself in Hermione—effortlessly—as he ran, pointing his wand and shouting curses without thought; some he'd learned from Voldemort, others from his father who wanted him to be a _true_ Black and a _true_ Malfoy.

But it wasn't good enough. It was never good enough. Not for the Dark Lord who watched him carefully, vigilantly. It almost felt like Voldemort never took his eyes off him (even when he wasn't around), and _fuck_ did it feel like he was trying to walk across buildings on the shakiest ladder created on Earth.

_Screams. _

_Blood._

_Please! Help!_

But help didn't come because Draco terrorized the way he fucked—brutally, meticulously, with complete control and complete abandon, until his very essence was a jumble of _Crucios_, _Avada Kedavras, _and some of the most heinous curses to ever be created. Curses like _insidia_ that made a person think leeches were eating through their skin so they attacked themselves; curses like _intreanato_ that caused a person's innards to rebel and bust through their belly button and wrap around their neck and choke themselves until their eyes were bulging and bloodshot; curses like _male coralinte, _which caused a person to eat their own heart out.

Pieces of bodies exploded and rained down around him like horror and the worst sort of mischief.

He was a machine. He was a man who'd never learnt how to be better, and Hermione's eyes—so honest, so pure, so _fucking_ _forgiving_—watched him as he committed cruelty after cruelty. She watched him as the cries of muggleborns, people like _her_, bathed him until he felt glorious and rectified—_justified_.

It didn't matter that she wasn't actually there—_he saw her_. She was always with him, always watching him, even when she was miles away. She'd imprinted herself that fully into his life, his very essence.

He stopped to breathe, to watch his work in action. He was abhorrent, and he couldn't change.

"That's it," Lucius patted Draco on the shoulder as a muggle pleaded for mercy, and Draco ignored the faceless, random man as though he couldn't hear him.

There was something about the screams of others—after so many, Draco couldn't tell the difference. There was no difference, not to Draco. Everyone felt their own pain acutely. Everyone felt like no one had ever felt pain like they've suffered. Everyone was the same in their self-centeredness, and he wasn't moved. Sadly, he hadn't ever been moved. But Hermione made him feel her pain. With a simple gaze, she could make his stomach lurch, and bile rise up to his throat. He'd ignore the feeling, _always_, but it was there.

It was there, and it reminded him of how helpless he'd been once upon a time. It reminded him of how _less of a man_ he'd been.

The urge, that overwhelming twitch in his heart, to kneel at her feet and pray and corrupt himself with her innocence and light, reminded him that he was a slave to the Dark Lord, and he'd _never_ willingly be a slave again.

So every time she looked at him, he wanted to rage, and break. He wanted to _kill_, and these nights of revels…these nights of torture and mayhem—they were his salvation from Hermione's touch.

These nights of _Revel _reminded him who he was.

_Screams. _

_Blood._

_You don't have to do this! Please!_

But he did have to do this. He had to do this to rise above the burning pit of hate that burned him. He had to do this, or he'd never—

"I knew you'd be a natural," Lucius smiled proudly at his son. His only son, the joy in his life. They were standing in a pool of blood, but neither took notice.

"Takes after the old man, alright!" Rodolphus Lestrange grinned.

They were men. They were monsters. They were soldiers in a war against themselves, trying so hard to be _men_, whatever the hell that entailed.

_Screams. _

_Blood._

Draco wanted to take off again, death his witness, as curses flew off his tongue, hitting random muggles and muggleborns alike as he went, leaving his father, his _family_ behind.

It was a natural instinct to _never stop running_, because if he stopped for too long, if he let his father and uncle—other Death Eaters—catch up to him and _really look_, then they'd realize that he wasn't like them. Not really. Not like he should be.

"It's that Black blood," Bellatrix approached them with a hungry look in her eyes, blood spatter soaked into the skin above her chest. "Of course he'd be a natural."

They all laughed. They laughed because to have Black blood was to be dark, destroyed, and _dipped_ in the most horrendous parts of human nature.

Draco picked up his feet, and ran again, the darkest curses upon his lips unleashed without thought or pause. Terror his form of poison. Hermione's phantom eyes chasing him as he went.

_Screams. _

_Blood_.

_Never stop running_, because their laughter and smiles haunted him; if he stopped for too long, then they'd notice he wasn't smiling too.

* * *

Their marriage was a maze. It was the kind that turned sharply, and ended abruptly, only to force the maze runner to find a new path.

Hermione was no expert, but she'd figured out over the slow months which nights it was okay to talk, and which nights she shouldn't say anything at all. But sometimes the silence was too much. Sometimes the silence was filled with secrets that threatened to destroy them.

Sometimes she was too weak, too self-absorbed, to be silent. Sometimes she felt too fragile, too full of self-indulgence—_self-pity_, to say anything at ll. Tonight was one of those nights, and as she watched Draco take off his soaked clothes, heavy she assumed from the chilly early November rain outside, it wasn't until she saw his arms and hands that she realized he was soaked in blood, and her stomach churned. _Who had she married? What kind of person was he?_ But she already knew the answers to those questions. He was a Malfoy, and he'd do whatever he needed to.

Including maim, kill, and torture.

It was too much. Her eyes couldn't focus, and her nails dug into her palm.

The blood had been so much that _some had soaked through his cloak and dress shirt, and covered his chest, and arms_. His ivory skin, streaked with such a bright red made a sense of bitterness and horror sweep upon her. His shoes and pants hit the floor with a quiet _thud. _It sickened her how beautiful he was, despite the clear proofs of his monstrosity.

"What have you done?" she asked horrified. Her eyes filled with tears, and her nails broke the skin on the inside of her palms, she was clenching her fists so hard.

He didn't spare her a glance or a word as he stepped into their private bathroom and attempted to wash his sins away. The water spray began to beat against him, brutalizing him as it purified him.

_What have you done?_

Hermione listened to the soothing sound of the water, but didn't take her eyes off the blood soaked clothes on the ground in front of the door.

The black cloak hid the blood of Draco's victims, but she knew it was there. The clothes might as well have been white, for all it did to hide his sins from her.

_What have you done?_

The silver mask was on the ground, stark against his black clothes that were heavy with the screams of those he'd killed tonight. How many times had he ripped his soul? How many times had he damned himself?

Hermione stood abruptly; the world swayed for a moment but she ignored the vertigo, swept the clothes from the ground, and brashly walked across to the fireplace. She hated these clothes. They were testament, and burden. They were the _truth_ of the man she was slowly feeling _so much for_.

She couldn't accept this. Not this. Anything but this. So she threw the clothes into the fireplace, and watched them burn. She watched until the dark cloak, dress shirt, and pants were nothing but pieces of ash dancing in the fire.

"Don't lie to yourself, Granger" Draco said quietly from the bathroom doorway, his hips and thighs covered only by a towel. She tilted her head a bit to the side in his direction, but she couldn't bear to look at him. Not while her hands were stained red with the blood from his clothes.

She looked as guilty as him.

"Go to sleep, Malfoy," she responded hoarsely. Her eyes were trained on her hands that shook. _Who had she married?_

"Don't lie to yourself," he repeated, and walked up to her. His front brushed against her back, and she wasn't sure whether it was okay to feel the pleasurable goosebumps that arose along her arms.

She hated him for making her feel that way.

_What have you done?_

"I'm not, Malfoy," she grit her teeth, angered at her inability to push him away—angered even further at her ability to push her emotions away, all the horror she felt.

"_Yes_, you are," Draco lifted his arms, and engulfed her from behind. His hands grabbed hers, and the blood was still slick, and imprinted itself on his long, elegant fingers. They were both dirty, tainted, _so fucking guilty_. He whispered into her ear, "You're trying to convince yourself that I'm better than I am. But don't kid yourself—I'm not. _I'm not, and I'll never be_. I've killed, and yeah, sometimes I hated it, but sometimes I fucking loved it—feeling powerful and untouchable, and _that's who I am_. So don't lie and tell yourself that I'm not like _them_. Because I am. I am, and you married me knowing that I was."

He was right. He was so damned right that Hermione wanted to weep, and shout that _if only she'd known beforehand_, but she had known. She had known _exactly_ who he was, and that'd been the _reason_ why she'd said yes.

_What have you done?_

It was too late to turn back now. They were too far gone to ask for release—of their turpitudes, of their hearts that were slowly becoming intertwined.

Draco's lips grazed the space under her ear, and Hermione shuddered. _Yes, yes_.

It didn't matter that there was blood on their hands; blood wasn't new to them; anger wasn't new to them either, and Hermione had felt hate and washed blood off his clothes too many times to count for _this_ to be a special event—she'd made it a habit to wash his clothes the same night he came back so as to avoid the house elves seeing the proof of who she married; she'd check her reflection each morning after she washed his clothes, looking for signs she'd been crying that she needed to glamour away; none of this was new.

His lips were like silk against her skin. _Yes, yes_. It didn't matter that his mask was on the floor, creating a black hole of despair between them the more he wore it. Nothing mattered because, _please don't ever stop_.

_Never_.

The friction between their bodies as Hermione pushed herself against his front caused the towel covering his modesty to fall.

Neither noticed because there were demons chasing Draco, and he felt like he couldn't breathe for a moment. Hermione felt the hitch in his breath and turned precipitously to gaze at him. Her arms were still trapped in his grasp as he let go of her hands and ran his blood soaked finger up her arm, until his fingers were digging into the soft flesh of her upper arm.

Hermione let her hand rest on his chest, over his heart, and tried to see into him. But there were too many demons for her to slay. There were too many deaths at his hands for her to ever pretend that any of that was okay.

Instead she gave him the only thing she had to give. "I love you," she whispered, heartbroken, confused. "You're okay—I've got you. I've got you, Malfoy. _I love you_. _Always_. _No matter what._"

Neither knew if she was telling the truth, and it was so different from where they started.

"_Fuck, I'm yours, Granger_," Draco whispered harshly as his lips descended upon hers. "_Never fucking doubt—I'm yours. Only yours._"

Their passion was unstoppable; but Hermione couldn't forget—she _wouldn't forget_. Not tonight, not after the smell of burnt clothes still permeated the air.

She pushed him away, tears stinging her eyes, hate burning in her heart, and asked him, "_what have you done_?"

Draco knew his answer wouldn't change the horror she felt. "I did what I had to, Granger. I _always_ do what I have to."

"How—how can you stand there as if _nothing_ happened? _How dare you_ stand there as if you did nothing tonight?"

Hermione's body shook with all the rage she felt, and she felt vindicated when she saw pain in his eyes, when his skin paled even further that he looked sick.

"You don't get to judge me, _princess_," Draco growled harshly, sneer in perfect place. "Not until you're the one surrounded by Death Eaters—not until you're the one looking down the end of someone's wand, knowing that your choices don't just affect you."

"That excuses nothing!" Hermione snapped, and she was in front of him, shoving him, angrily rubbing the tears that had started to fall off her face; the blood had dried on her hands, stuck. "What did you do? Tell me! What did you do?"

"I did what—"

"No!" Hermione was hoarse from yelling, tired from always having the same argument behind closed doors. "_Just tell me the truth_. For once—just _once_, give me a straight answer, Malfoy. _Tell me what you did_—_please_."

Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she held on. But she wasn't just holding on for herself, she was holding on for _them_ because she knew they would break under the weight of so much blood if they didn't hold on to each other for dear life.

Draco looked down at his wife, the only light in his forever darkness, and he was overcome. He was crushed beneath the weight of her despair and tears, but _fuck_ if she didn't look beautiful when she cried.

Her tears reminded him of how it all began; her tears reminded him of his shameful desire before he'd accepted himself, and his humiliating lust for her that had caused him to want to see her cry.

His hands reached for her cheek, and he wiped a tear away. "I killed, Granger. I killed men, and women, and watched as Dolohov killed children because that's his thing, and stood by as my uncle sliced someone limb by limb because he loves the slow process—" Draco gasped, caught in the memory and horrified at his own actions and passivity. But Hermione simply dug her nails deeper, and he understood; they'd either stand and face their sins, or break—and Draco _refused_ to break. "I didn't just shout the killing curse—that's too easy. Too quick. That doesn't make me feel _superior_, and don't fucking doubt it, Granger. This is all about feeling superior. _Powerful_. No, I cast _pellorno_ and caused a man to literally explode like a volcano. I cast _oscurealte_ and caused his wife to vomit blood until she died on her own blood, convinced she was drowning in darkness, instead of in front of an audience. I—"

"Stop," Hermione pleaded suddenly, too disturbed to handle hearing more.

"Isn't this what you wanted?"

_Isn't this what you wanted?_

Maybe it had been, before he'd actually answered. But now all she wanted was Harry's innocence—his ignorance of the way this war was actually fought and paid for—in blood.

She didn't have words for him, and so she shook her head as her lips trembled, but she didn't let go of him, and that was enough.

"I'm sorry," Draco whispered huskily, his truth tearing him apart. "I'm so fucking sorry that I'm not that sorry at all. Because if it comes down to the entire world, or you and me, I'll _always_ choose us. _Always_."

It was the worst thing he'd ever said to her, and Hermione couldn't blame him because that was exactly why she'd married him. She'd wanted that security that men with morals, people like Ron and Harry, could never give her.

She knew that was her ugly truth that never failed to surprise and disturb her.

"I know," she replied quietly, heart beating to the same beat as his. "I know, but—_what have you done?_" she sobbed and pounded her fist against his chest half-hazardly, and Draco wanted to cry with her because he knew there was a darkness in his heart that even her caresses and warmth would never chase away.

Draco wrapped his arms around her, but he didn't want to cage her. He wanted to comfort her, and she wanted to accept his comfort as her sobs tore at his heart—her face buried in his smooth chest.

In his embrace, Hermione couldn't stop herself from the impossible hope that things wouldn't always be the way they were.

Draco could feel the whisper of that hope in the way her nails let up just a little—could feel the impossibility of it in his own touch.

_What have you done?_

Her sobs shook them both, and Draco felt like he was being torn and dismembered by her. He was sure he was tearing her apart, too.

"I know, fuck, I know, Granger," Draco apologized in his own way, almost desperate to calm her—desperate to have her forgiveness too. He didn't know what to do, so he let words tumble forth, as he kissed the top of her head, her forehead—he let his lips trail down the side of her cheek. "I'm a dick, and I shouldn't have told you. I'm unbelievably cruel, and sadistic, but I'm yours. _I'm yours, Granger_, and we belong together. Despite all that I am, _we belong together_."

His words, more so than the trail of his light kisses, calmed Hermione down enough to stop shaking. Her tears started to dry on her skin; she wanted to flee his presence. Suddenly, it was all too much and she was too small, too fragile.

"I should go wash my hands," she said quietly as she stepped away from him and looked away. She couldn't bear to look him in the eyes. Not then, not when there was so much in between them, stopping them from being who they should be instead of who they were. Draco nodded stiffly, but Hermione paused. "I can handle the truth, Malfoy. I can handle all of it—I won't stop caring. Nothing you could ever do would make me stop. Even if I die hating you, I'll never stop caring."

It was because it didn't make logical sense that it made the most sense—this was who they were, and who they'd always be.

She'd never walk away, and neither would he. Even if she wasn't sure if she loved him at all. Even if he wasn't sure he _could_ ever love her.

"I know," he smiled sadly, eyes glittering in a rare show of honesty. "I know. But don't be blinded by your emotions, Granger. If you love me, then you'll learn to love the darkness, because that's who I am. It might be _all_ I am by the end of this war."

The firelight danced across their skin in shades of red, orange, and yellow; the possibility of their love became the color of fall leaves as Draco conjured a wet washcloth, and gently took hold of her hands and began to scrub.

They didn't talk about how hard the blood was to wash off;

_What have you done?_

_If you love me, then you'll learn to love the darkness_

_What have you done?_

_That's who I am, that might be all I am._

But _they_—they would forever be the embers of something greater—infinite.

The blood on their hands linked them like love, like _life_—she knew she was as much to blame as him; she'd taken to turning a blind eye to his crimes after so many arguments and pleas for him to stop.

He'd never stop.

_What have you done?_

Not as long as the Dark Lord lived. Not as long as he was searching for power that he felt was just outside of his grasp.

_What have you done?_

Their hands wiped clean, Draco kissed her crushingly, and Hermione moaned as he laid claim to her like the day he'd offered marriage.

_I'm yours. _

_We belong together. _

_What have you done?_

But, lips bruising and scalding, _punishing_ each other for making them doubt (she: her righteous pedestal; him: his rightful place in the world), they buried themselves deep within the haze of their lust; they forgot how guilty they were.

_What have you done?_

_I'm yours._

_I love you. _

_Always. _

_No matter what_—as they climbed up and down the ladder of ecstasy; this was their new normal.

* * *

"_Expelliarmus!"_

"_Crucio_!"

"_Imperio!_"

The curses blasted off the halls because the third years didn't have great aim. But Hermione couldn't think, couldn't stop to question what was _really_ happening. Unforgivables! They were throwing unforgivables around in the hall. It was too much.

"_Incarcerous!_" Hermione yelled furiously, aiming at both young students. She could barely breathe, barely contain her rage. Unforgiveables!

"What _in the hell_ do you two think you're doing?"

Both students launched into a complicated story, but Hermione heard what they didn't say. They had learned that unforgiveables were okay. They had learned that there was no such thing as boundaries. They had learned the joys of dark magic, and Hermione felt tears well up in her eyes.

"I don't care what happened," she said sternly. She may not have gotten Head Girl for clearly political reasons—and who in their wildest dreams would've ever thought that being Head Girl would be _political_—but she was still a Prefect. She still had some kind of power, and even if she didn't, she was a _Malfoy_. She'd never be powerless again. "One hundred points from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff each!"

The surrounding students gasped, astounded at the amount taken from both houses.

Hermione's voice was thick with emotion. Her heart was beating erratically. It was as though the Earth was slowing down, crushing her ribs with the force of gravity. It was too much; _everything was too much_, and she couldn't breathe.

_She couldn't breathe_. Her hands started to flail, and her heart felt as though it would explode out of her chest. She was sinking, colliding with the ground, as she tried _so damn hard_ to simply _breathe_. But she couldn't. She wasn't strong enough, good enough.

Black dots started to swirl around the world, covering everything in a darkness that would consume her. But then there was a voice, so gentle, so _sure_, whispering into her ear.

"You're okay," the voice said assuredly. "I've got you, Granger. You're okay."

Suddenly there was a sliver of more space, and she could inhale a bit more. "I can't—I can't" she tried to finish but the walls were closing in on her. Everything was so sharp, and crushing.

"Yes, you can," the voice said tenderly. Whoever it was, he was a rock, solid, comforting, unmovable and immeasurable in this world that never stood still, and was constantly changing around her, and under her. "You can do anything, Granger. Just breathe—that's it. Take nice long breaths. No one's waiting for us—just take your time. That's it. Just breathe with me, just like that."

It was like a rush of air flooded Hermione's lungs, and she knew that voice. She turned to face the speaker, and her husband's pointedly aristocratic and painfully beautiful face stared down at her.

Draco had calmed her down from a panic attack as though she were his _wife_, and not just the woman he used to purge away his demons at night with every thrust, every hiss and moan.

Hermione had to look away, too destroyed by so many emotions colliding within her. His hands were warm on her back, and she realized that perhaps she had been his _wife_ for a while now.

"Take a walk!" Draco barked at the crowd that'd been watching entranced. "But let me be clear: I find anyone throwing around unforgivables, and I'll take points you don't have to give—so many points that you'll never recover given another seven years here."

His voice was harsh and immutable. No one doubted that he'd do exactly as he said.

"What are we going to do?" Hermione asked him breathily. She wanted to run, hide, cry until she drowned the whole world with her pain.

_What are we going to do?_

Draco saw himself, reflected in her eyes, proud, _lord_, and he didn't have an answer. The shame ate at him. The ire and disgrace that tore at his very core wound itself tight around his chest. From the time he was a child, he'd always been taught that the husband was supposed to have all of the answers. The husband was supposed to be protector, _and_ professor.

But all he could do was swing with the breeze, roll with the hills, and bend with the trees.

_What are we going to do?_

"We'll survive, Granger," Draco said quietly. "That's all we can do."

"_Just stop_!" Hermione pushed him away. There was fire in her eyes, and the rage she felt could burn mountains. "We need to do more than just _survive_! Can't you see how _simply surviving_ is tearing us apart? It's tearing Hogwarts apart!"

"Don't be dramatic," Draco scoffed, secure that she was fine if she was raving at him like she was prone to do. "What you saw wasn't a result of people surviving—that's fear. Fear makes people see enemies where there aren't, and fear assures that we all adapt. The Hogwarts that used to be doesn't exist anymore. That's the fact of the matter, Granger, and I suggest you get with the program. What you saw was just a bunch of little shits adapting to the _new _Hogwarts."

_SLAP! _

Hermione's palm stung. But they both knew that she wasn't hitting him over this. No, this was so much bigger than just one argument. One moment. One problem.

This was about the blood that he had shed. This was about all the blood that he would shed.

"How can you be so uncaring? So cold?" Hermione whispered harshly, and her words were punches attacking him in all of his soft spots. Her words were knives dragging across his skin, and he was _battered_ and _bruised_ by her honest eyes.

"I am what I need to be," he said quietly, reveling in the sting her hand left behind. His icy eyes pierced her, made her immobile.

"Don't do that!" Hermione glared. "Don't try to excuse everything that you do! Not _everything_ is excusable."

"What would you have me do, Granger? Would you rather I wither and die from self-loathing?"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it!" She went to turn away. She felt as though her body was under constant attack from his gaze—always watching, always scrutinizing, always judging her emotions based off of her body language.

Draco's hand touched her shoulder, effectively stopping her. But she couldn't look his way. She couldn't bear to see his searching stare that always saw too much.

She couldn't look his way, and Draco couldn't stop looking at her because she was like the fucking sun, so bright, so untainted, so _damned beautiful_, that he couldn't bear the weight of his own truth sometimes.

"I'm yours," he whispered huskily, and there was nothing sexual about it. He meant it. He'd never meant anything more, and he was overcome.

"I know," she responded quietly. "I know you are, Malfoy, but that doesn't change the things you do. _Who_ you've become."

"It doesn't have to—my sins are my own. You don't own that. You don't _get_ to own that," he growled. His hands dug into her shoulder, but it felt nice.

Strong.

Grounded.

_Them._

Hermione turned around and kissed him. She kissed him with care, because of all the wild and terrible feelings inside of her. She kissed him as though the ocean was under her feet, and the heavens above the crown of his head.

He kissed her back, and it almost felt like love.

* * *

_Dear Mrs. Malfoy, _

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. I know we haven't had many chances to get to know one another. I know that you may not want to get to know me, considering my lineage, but I need your help. I need your guidance. _

_It is a new world we are living in and I don't know how to help your son. I'm not sure how I am supposed to help him when there are so many things, secrets, separating us. Even the truth becomes its own wall between us, and we always seem to be on opposite sides even when we're not. _

_I am his wife, and as his wife, I know my duty. I will, of course, protect him to the best of my ability, but there are things that I cannot protect him from. There are those who he sees often that I cannot shield him from, and I am at my wits end. _

_I cannot protect him from his own actions, and my words seem to fall on deaf ears often. Perhaps I am naïve in thinking that you can help me—that you would be willing to help me. Perhaps there is too much of a divide between you and I for you to find it in your heart to help me. But you love your son. I know that you do, and I can only pray to the Earth that this love is enough for you to share some way to keep him close to me, to keep him safe from his own passion for glory and blood, to help him in my capacity as his wife. _

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione Malfoy_

Narcissa Malfoy let the words turn to ash in her hands as she thought of what she should do. She _hated_ the idea of her son married to a muggleborn, but she loved her son. The young Mrs. Malfoy was correct—she loved her son more than anything in the world, and even if she hadn't said it, it was clear that she loved Draco too.

'_How things change'_ Narcissa thought grimly as she reached for a quill.

* * *

Hermione was still reeling from all of the shocks of the past week, when she went to sit down at Gryffindor Table for breakfast a few days later after a quick visit to the owlery, next to Ginny and Luna. It wasn't strange to find Luna at the Gryffindor table by Ginny's side, but there were too many eyes centered on the table.

Hermione sat tensely, eyes like owls looking from left to right.

"Is it just me or is everyone looking at us?"

"Not us," Ginny rolled her eyes. "_Neville_."

"Why?" Hermione asked, dumbfounded.

"It's clear that there's a crumple-horned snorkak infestation near Neville," Luna replied noncommittally. "It's driving all the girls crazy."

"More likely the title and galleons hanging on his neck," Ginny snorted.

"_What?_" Hermione flexed her hands exasperatedly.

"Neville's of age," Ginny clarified as she put some jam on her toast. Hermione didn't bother to grab anything, too floored with the world turning around her. "It's time for him to pick a wife, and so as you can see, the _vultures_ are on the hunt."

"That's a little harsh," Hermione noted. She went to pour herself some orange juice, but Ginny jumped in frustration, and startled Hermione, causing her to spill some juice.

"It's not _harsh enough_," Ginny glared. "Look at them! They disgust me! All anyone can talk about is the Longbottom title that he'll inherit, and his status. _What is wrong with them_?"

"Hmm," Hermione pursed her lips. "Says the girl betrothed to _Harry Potter_."

Hermione couldn't stand to hear Ginny's hypocritical words, if only because her own hypocritical nature had been made clear to her over and over again since the day she married Draco.

"What does _that_ mean?" Ginny glowered at Hermione, but Hermione could care less. Not today. Not after Malfoy's crimes seemed to chase her, biting at her heels. Ginny didn't deserve Harry. She never would in Hermione's eyes.

"Who do you think he'll pick?" Hermione switched topics. She was too emotionally exhausted to spar with Ginny today. Hermione could clearly see that Ginny wasn't about to let it go, but Luna jumped in, a calculating look in her eyes before it was masked by the natural hazy expression that seemed to perpetually grace her face.

"I heard that Mrs. Longbottom was trying to convince him to petition for Pansy Parkinson, but I also heard that he was trying to marry Ron," Luna shrugged in that flighty way of hers.

Ginny spluttered and coughed in surprise. "Now, that's absolutely bolloc—"

"Hey guys," Neville appeared behind the girls, and they whipped around to face him, faces red in embarrassment.

"Hi Neville," Luna recovered first, having very little sense of propriety anyway. "Happy Birthday!"

"Thanks, Luna," Neville smiled, and he was glorious in his own way, completely different than Harry or Draco. But there was something familiar, yet different about him—he held himself similarly to many Slytherins she'd met. Not arrogant, but aware of his power, though not uncomfortable with it like Harry was. It was interesting, yet Hermione figured it was because he was groomed since the day he was born for _today_. Strangely, she missed the Neville that was unconfident, courageous despite his overwhelming insecurity. He turned to Hermione, "Can we talk?"

"Of course," Hermione stood, and Neville placed his hand on the middle of her back. It was a gentlemanly effort he would've never done before, and she wasn't quite sure why he'd start now. Nevertheless, she turned to Luna and Ginny. "I'll see you guys later."

They nodded, Luna with a smile on her face, and Ginny with a devilishly curious look that tried and failed to mask her jealousy. But Hermione knew that Ginny didn't love Neville. She never had, even though they dated very briefly last year. But Ginny Weasley was possessive, with or without reason. Like brother, like sister, Hermione guessed.

"So, congratulations are in order," Hermione smiled at Neville once they crossed the doorway of the Great Hall.

"Thanks," Neville let his hand fall, and saw the curious look on Hermione's face at his gesture. His hand lifted and rubbed at his neck uncomfortably. "It's just, people watch me now. Not for a punchline, but as heir to a Lordship as Head of House. My actions matter now."

She thought of Draco, how stressed he seemed to be all the time, and she wondered if this was how he felt too, only he refused to say anything.

Hermione touched his arm lightly. "It'll be okay, Neville."

"Will it, though?" He stopped walking, and faced her, his eyes shining with worry and pain. "Because I'm expected to marry a half-blood or a muggleborn, someone who I don't love and who doesn't know the first thing about being a Lady of a Most Noble and Ancient House."

Hermione retracted her hand like she'd been burned. Anger and shock coursed through her, but this was _Neville_. He wasn't a bigot. He couldn't be. He'd defended her too many times alongside Ron and Harry to count.

"I didn't realize that you cared about blood," Hermione quietly said, suppressed rage evident in her steely voice.

Neville ran his hand over his face, a frown of fatigue marring the handsome features he'd grown into.

"I'm not a blood-supremacist, Hermione. You know that I'm not. But there's a difference between championing a people, their rights, and marrying them into your family, into your bloodline, your _legacy_. This isn't about half-bloods or muggleborns being _less than_, this is about history. Wizarding history that muggleborns and half-bloods raised in the muggle world don't know, and will find hard to understand. My gran is beside herself—she thought the marriage law would blow over, but after Malfoy married you, everyone knows that's not true. He gave it fuel."

Hermione was beyond confused on multiple levels. She felt like she'd been thrown into an alternate universe.

"I highly doubt Malfoy marrying me made much of a difference to those fear mongers," she snapped. "And saying that you're not a racist doesn't make you sound like less of one."

"Hermione," Neville said her name softly, and she remembered that this was her friend. If nothing else, she couldn't crucify him for being honest with her. It just stung that his honesty was a lot like Draco's—_brutal_.

"The Malfoy name may not mean much to muggle-borns, but in the wizarding world it matters. He's _Lord_ of the House of Malfoy, and Heir apparent to the House of Black unless another heir pops out of the woodworks before all the Blacks die out. His actions, his decisions _even before_ he married you mattered to Wizarding Britain. The second he married you, so soon after the law was enacted, set a precedent. And _you know_ that I don't bow to all that pureblood nonsense, but there's credit to the difference in being raised in the Wizarding world than the muggle one—not everything can be learned by books."

Hermione wanted to refute his words, but hadn't she thought the same thing not so long ago? She remembered the fateful conversation of magical marriages she'd had with Draco, what felt like a lifetime ago.

"_How exactly do wizards get married?" Hermione had asked a few days before the ceremony. _

"_Most purebloods, especially the Most Ancient and Noble houses get married in the old ways. With a seer, and a sacred circle," Draco had answered her distractedly. He'd been trying to find a correspondence that he'd written to the Ministry requesting a specific Ministry Official. _

"_Why a circle?" _

"_Life flows constantly. It's a circle of life, of magic, of our bind because once we're bound, we can never be unbound," he'd responded. Hermione had realized early in the first week that he was a plethora of information. _

_Draco, being pureblood and raised from birth in the wizarding community, knew so much that Hermione had never thought to ask about. Or could never find the answer to because it was an unwritten knowledge in the magical world._

There _was_ a difference. Not in magical ability, but in culture and understanding of the world around them. It was such a small thing, but significant. It mattered to those who were born and bred to be the cornerstones of the magical world in Great Britain.

It was in this moment that Hermione finally realized the sacrifice that Draco had made by marrying her—by wanting her so much that he'd married her without a fight or second thought.

Perhaps they were closer to love than they'd ever realized, or she'd ever hoped.

But she couldn't focus on that. Not now, when Neville clearly didn't ask to speak to her about _this_.

"Why did you want to talk, Neville?" Hermione asked straightforwardly, but her eyes were caring and warm.

She was obviously sidestepping the issue and shelfing it for another time, and Neville saw that. But he wasn't Harry or Ron; it wasn't his place make sure that she was facing hard truths head on.

"I'm nervous," he admitted quietly. His voice was filled with restrained fear and strength, because he wouldn't be broken. Not by this. "I have to pick a wife, I know that. But who'll she be…if she'll be my equal or my complete opposite—it's all up in the air, and…I guess, I wanted to know how you did it?"

"Me?"

"Yeah. You married Malfoy—against all odds, you were bound to the Earth together. And, well, you're clearly not enemies. He obviously cares for you, given the law amendment he pushed through…You guys made it work, and I want my marriage to work, regardless of who she is. I want it to work. It's _forever_."

His honesty, so pure and open, struck her and she couldn't move. She couldn't speak. Since when was _her_ marriage one to aspire to have? Had she and Malfoy evolved so much without her notice? Or were they just that great at acting?

She didn't know, but Neville waited patiently for an answer. His gaze was intense and frank, without judgement, and so she gave him the only truth in her heart. The cruelest truth about her marriage.

"Just don't lie to each other—no matter what, no matter how bad the truth is, just don't lie to each other. That's the only boundary line Malfoy and I have, the only one we've ever had, for better or for worse: to always tell the truth, even if it hurt—sometimes _because_ we knew it _would_."

Neville heard what she said, and what she hadn't said; truth destroyed worlds, but it also rebuilt from the ashes. He smiled, and Hermione knew she'd given him what he'd been after.

She'd helped him, and she thought that if she could help just one person a day for the rest of her life, then maybe it'd absolve her for turning a blind eye to all the horrors Draco committed in her name.

* * *

After Hermione's conversation with Neville, she couldn't help but seek out Harry. Despite everything, she knew he'd be a calming presence to her turbulent emotions. They were best friends, and he knew when she needed to take her mind off the problems surrounding the war. Just like the second she saw him, she knew he needed to get something off of his chest.

So in this silent knowledge, they smiled, quietly went outside, and sat beneath a tree by the lake. The silence wasn't stifling. It didn't sit between them, static, nor did it try to drown them in its heaviness.

The silence was comfortable, as it had always been between them.

The longer it stretched, the more Hermione relaxed; the more Hermione relaxed, the more Harry relaxed. This was simply how they worked, because they'd been two pieces of the same puzzle for too long not to be that way anymore just because she belonged to another, and soon so would he.

Hermione and Harry watched as a Seventh Year Ravenclaw chased a fellow Hufflepuff, laughter floating in the air.

"That could've been us," Harry noted quietly. Hermione looked at him sharply for a moment, until she felt she could see into his soul—because they were _best friends_ and she could see into him that fully, if no one else.

"Harry," she said his name like a warning and a request.

"Do you ever think about it," Harry asked Hermione, though he didn't look away from the two young lovers, so happy in their apparent innocence. "About _us_?"

Hermione felt like she couldn't breathe for a moment, she was so shocked, and yet, not so shocked at all. This, the _possibility_ of _them_, wasn't new. It'd been there for a very long time, buried beneath friendship, honor, and Ron's presence that had always served as the greatest barrier.

"Don't go there," Hermione pleaded quietly. They could see their breaths, it was so cold; their hearts uncertain.

"Why not?"

"Because that time passed," she said honestly. It was a different type of truth than she was accustomed to with Malfoy. This truth hurt just as much, but it wasn't meant to. It was harsh only because it didn't _have_ to be the truth. But now it was.

"I know," Harry nodded slowly.

It struck her just then, how different Harry truly was from the boy he'd been last year. _This_ was the Chosen One—a man who saw and understood even what she didn't want him to.

"But doesn't it ever bother you?" He turned to face her—because he wouldn't let this be the one truth that they never uncover. Hermione was married. Soon, sooner than he liked, he'd be married too. This wasn't about changing the future. This was about acknowledging the past, and all the things that could have been, if only they'd been better, _more_. "Doesn't it ever cross your mind?"

"What do you want me to say, Harry?" Hermione frowned, an anger she hadn't felt at him since he'd used _Sectumsempra_ on Draco started to burn in her veins. It was building slowly, making her uncomfortable in her own skin.

"This isn't a test, Hermione," he shrugged, because though he might have changed so much in such a small time, he was still a teenage boy, and he could solve the problems of the universe with a shrug. "There's no right answer."

"I know that!" she snapped, annoyed. "But what's the point? Why even bring this up? That's not us—it never was."

"But it could've been—"

"Yeah," she sighed in frustration. "It could've been, back in Fourth Year. Or fifth year. Or _last year_, even. But that was a long time ago."

"The day you hugged me, right before that first task," he ran his hand through his hair, and Hermione watched the way his fingers threaded through his mop of messy black strands. "I thought the Earth was going to fall from under me."

"Because of me?"

"No," Harry let out a quick incredulous laugh, and Hermione pursed her lips. Every girl liked to think that their hug or kiss could make someone feel that way. She wondered if Malfoy ever felt that way. Maybe that was the difference—she and Harry were never meant to be, and so their touch could never be that electric, that overwhelming.

"It's not because your hug wasn't great," he continued, and cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to backtrack. "You give good hugs—really good…as good as hugs can be…I guess…anyway, there was just so much going on that day—that _year_."

"Okay?" Hermione was trying to follow his logic, to see how everything connected, but perhaps it was the sun or the cold, but she couldn't.

"C'mon, 'Mione," Harry's emerald eyes cut into her, and she felt like she was fourteen all over again. "You hugged me, but we both know it was different than any other hug we'd ever had. Didn't you feel it? How different it was?"

Hermione contemplated it for a moment, went back in time while she sat on the damp grass with Harry, and let the feelings of that day grip her. She'd been terrified. Anxious. So damned happy afterwards, too, that tears of relief had sprung to her eyes.

"It was the beginning of what could've been. Of another life, I guess…I was scared for you," Hermione whispered. "You were my whole world and you could've died, right there, in front of me. And the rules wouldn't let me just jump in—you could've died, and I would've been helpless. I _felt_ helpless."

"But I'm not your whole world anymore?" he asked her, though he already knew the answer. This year had decided so much. Everything was different now, and they couldn't go back, even if they wanted to.

"You're my best friend," Hermione asked him silently to understand. And he did. He understood, but it hurt to know that he wasn't her sole focus anymore.

"I know I haven't always been the best friend I could be," Harry's hand lifted to reach for her, but he quickly retracted his hand. She wasn't his. That time, that _possibility_, had come and gone. They'd watched it pass them by. "I should've treated you better, been better—I get that."

"I love you," Hermione whispered, and there was an inflection in her voice that made something tear at both of their chests. It felt like they were under the knife without anesthesia.

"But you love him more, now." It wasn't a question.

"I love him _differently_," the words tumbled out of her quickly, a Band-Aid to soothe Harry's confusion and pain.

Hermione tried to explain, but she knew that it'd be impossible. She and Draco were too complicated for that. Hell, she and Harry were too complicated as well for that matter.

She didn't know what she felt for Draco most of the time. But she'd told him she loved him so many times, so engrossed in the hunger for him, that the words weren't foreign to her.

_I love you. _

_I'm yours_.

_I love him differently_ was better than _I don't love him at all, but he still takes precedence over you_.

"I almost kissed you," Harry switched gears suddenly, a wistful smile on his lips, but Hermione wasn't lost.

She knew the exact moment he spoke of, and frankly, what did she have to be afraid of? He was her best friend. Through the ups and downs, he was a constant, and that would never change. This conversation, this honesty, could only make them stronger.

"I almost kissed you back," she smiled sadly.

A loud squeal broke through their bubble, and they both turned back to watch the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff that started this entire conversation.

But they both knew they'd needed this conversation, if they were planning to move into a new stage of life together. If they planned to stick by each other no matter what, they needed to put _this_ to rest.

"I've always taken for granted that you and me—that we were the most important thing in the world," Harry admitted quietly, but it wasn't a tortured confession. They weren't long lost lovers, aching to reunite. They were first loves that never came to fruition; they were complete trust. "You, me, and Ron. Nothing could ever separate us, no one could beat us—_me_, if I had you on my side. I always took for granted that you'd be on my side."

"I still am," she reached over and broke the space between them, and laid her hand on his. "That hasn't changed, Harry. I'll _always_ be on your side."

"And Malfoy?"

"You know that's complicated," Hermione went to remove her hand, but Harry laid his free hand on top of hers, making a sandwich with hands and hearts.

"I know, I get that," he licked his lips, let his nose bump hers. "I just, I don't want to lose you. Not like I felt I did before."

"You never lost me," she shook her head, her brow furrowed in worry and denial.

"No, but it felt like I did. When I almost killed Malfoy, you were so mad—no, _disappointed_. I'd thought I'd lost you. I thought I'd never regain your trust, your friendship, your _love_."

"I never stopped."

She didn't clarify which she meant, and Harry was grateful for that. Choosing one would have made him feel like they had lost the other two.

"I was there…" Harry started, but his eyes were far away.

"I know," Hermione responded, having already heard his conversation with Luna. His eyes snapped to hers, and between them flowed all of the scents of secrets, comfort, and _home_. "I know."

"I always will be, too," Harry smiled that small smile of his that could break her heart.

"Me too," she whispered and smiled the smile of woman in the moonlight, instead of the smile she'd always had before of a little girl gazing up at the sun. "_Me too_."

Their faces were inches away, their breaths brushed past each other's. They were young, and beautiful, and optimistic, and _best friends. _Nothing could ever change that. Nothing could even come close, especially now that the past didn't hurt so much.

Now that the past didn't feel tense and tortured with countless what-if's—only, now, what was.

Hermione drew in a breath and they both went to step away from each other, to regain a sense of the equilibrium that they'd started to lose, when—

"What the _fuck_?" Draco's voice boomed and shattered the calm around them. Hermione and Harry let the cold wind separate them, and turned towards Draco.

Hermione felt a touch of guilt, but she kept her shoulders relaxed. She kept her face emotionless like she'd seen Draco do dozens of times.

"Never seen friends talk before?" Harry snapped at Draco, brows furrowed.

"I sure as shit don't talk _that_ close to my friends, Potter," Draco drawled, cruelly composed after his initial outburst.

"Do I even have to say that this isn't what it looks like?" Hermione pursed her lips, and stared at him condescendingly. She could care less that it might have been exactly what he thought—the point was that it wasn't.

Draco simply raised an eyebrow, and clipped out a curt "Potter, keep your hands off my wife."

Harry rolled his eyes, but took an extra step away from Hermione, and Draco dismissed the situation in the typical aristocratic nature that most purebloods of exceptional peerage did. He looked down his nose at them both, and proceeded to inform Hermione that McGonagall wanted to see her, before turning on his heel and leaving both Hermione and Harry staring after him.

"Are you in trouble?" Harry questioned worriedly.

Hermione wasn't sure, but she couldn't say that, and so she simply shook her head. "He's just dramatic that way."

Harry raised his eyebrow at Hermione, and for a second she was struck at how alike Harry was to Draco sometimes. She hated it, almost as much as she could hate Malfoy sometimes.

"Better be careful, or your face'll get stuck that way," Hermione pursed her lips.

Harry blinked at her owlishly, surprised.

Hermione stared back, nose in the air.

Mischief rang in their eyes, beautiful, and organically _them_ as they succumbed to laughter. Their laughter caught the attention of the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff they had been watching, and Hermione and Harry laughed even harder.

The wind whipped at them, the sun glared ferociously, but nothing could break them. Nothing could _ever_ break them, because even in a thousand years there would never be a purer tale than that of Harry Potter, and his best friend, Hermione Malfoy.

* * *

Draco breathed heavily, perspiration sticking his blonde hair to his forehead. He pushed all of his energy outwards, until the tips of his fingers felt burnt by electricity, and tried to conjure a sword.

Voldemort's gaze cut through him, and saw the struggle as though they weren't in a dimly lighted room in Malfoy Manor.

"_How is Mrs. Malfoy?"_ Voldemort had asked in a sinister, hissing voice when Draco had arrived an hour earlier. It'd been his first words to Draco, and Draco couldn't shake them.

It had been a simple question, meant to throw Draco off of his game, or meant to see how well Draco kept it together. None of the constant tests were ever clear.

_How is Mrs. Malfoy_?

His skin felt cold, and Hermione's smooth skin underneath his fingertips flashed across his mind.

Fear tried to grip him—why had he asked? Was there something Draco didn't know? Was Hermione in danger? The fear turned into possessive anger, because _no one touched what was his_, but even more importantly, he knew that nothing was actually wrong.

This was just another moment in the Dark Lord's endless set of mind games.

But even so, his feet rolled slightly with the need to run. To leave.

But Draco knew that Hermione wasn't the type to run and hide. That wasn't who she was. That wasn't who she'd ever be. Nonetheless, Draco wished that she could be. He wished that he could dominate her so fully that she'd never turn back—the image of her and Potter so close flashed in his mind's eye. _They'd_ never turn back and only run.

_Run_.

_Never stop running_.

_How is Mrs. Malfoy?_

"You are not concentrating," Voldemort scowled, a casual _crucio_ hanging off the tip of his tongue.

"I'm trying, m'lord," Draco responded carefully. "But I'm not sure what you want from me."

It was always a dangerous affair, to be honest with the Dark Lord, especially after his betrayal, which he'd skillfully masked as helpful to the Dark Lord and their cause.

"I want you to be great," Voldemort snarled. The air crackled around him. The wind spun and Draco was left breathless at the glory of him.

_Fuck_, he wanted to be like him—to wield that sort of power; he was terrified, and his bones trembled.

"How" Draco despaired, so tired of trying _so hard_, and feeling like he was found wanting. "How can I be great?"

"By forgetting what you know," Voldemort touched Draco's shoulder, and it was as though the Earth had bathed him in grace and infinite power—he was immobile under the hand of his Lord. "Forget the chains that bind you to gravity, to your wand. You must _believe_ that your will is greater than everything you know."

"How do I forget? How do I forget a lifetime of _everything_?"

Draco was baffled and frustrated. He could feel the Dark Lord's magic pulsing into him through his hand. He wanted to kneel, if for no other reason than to feel like a miracle under the Dark Lord's hand.

He wanted to feel like he could do anything in the world.

Chocolate orbs flashed through his eyes.

Eyes that believed in him grounded him as Voldemort pushed his own magic into him, and Draco let the shackles that bound his essence fall, and his magic pounded against the stone walls in ripples, shattered the glass around them with a deafening _crack_ that exploded around them like a shower from heaven.

A shimmer appeared before his hand, long, bright, _silver_—then gone.

But it was there. It was there.

Voldemort's lips twisted cruelly into a tiny smile of approval—so tiny that it might not have been there at all. But it was.

"Again," Voldemort let Draco go, and stepped back. His eyes glittered, and the air was heavy with magic and dark hope.

_How is Mrs. Malfoy? _

Her eyes sparkled in his mind, like russet diamonds, and his heart skipped a beat. There was so much faith in her shining back at him—though he knew he wasn't worthy of it.

But it was there.

_Hermione Malfoy_, and Draco screamed like he was being _crucio'd_ as he let his magic surround him, and move past him.

_Hermione Malfoy_, Draco fell to his knees, heart pounding, hate, passion, hope, and every single emotion he'd ever felt for her pinning him, and liberating him.

_Run. _

_Hide._

But he'd never hide from his truth. He'd never hide from himself, or _her_.

The shimmer that had appeared before was brighter, more _there_.

Draco took a breath, and it vanished as though it hadn't existed. But it had existed. Just barely, but it had. He'd seen it. It was there.

He was there.

Hermione was in Hogwarts, relatively safe.

_They_ existed, and her love for Harry Potter would never change that. Harry Potter's expressive face, so close to _his_ wife's would never change that.

"Let go, Draco," Voldemort hissed. "_Let go_."

Draco did, and his soul cried out to Hermione who was so far away, and couldn't see how great he'd truly become.

The sword was heavy underneath Draco's palm.

"Good," Voldemort smiled, his eyes possessive and _proud_. Draco felt like a king, and perhaps the Dark Lord had finally raised him high enough to be one. "Very good."

Draco let a triumphant smile grace his lips for moment, just long enough to be _more_. "Thank you, my lord."

Voldemort nodded dismissively, and waved his hand through the air. The sword was gone. Draco's shoulders, which had been squared in a sense of fulfillment, drooped in weariness and exhaustion.

"Again," Voldemort's cold voice and hard eyes tore Draco down again.

But he would build him back up. Draco knew he would. Because…

_How is Mrs. Malfoy?_

Because he had someone he was fighting for, and so long as he had that, he'd strive to be the greatest damned Death Eater the Dark Lord had ever seen. For Hermione Malfoy.

Draco nodded, determination glinting in the dim lighted room. "Again."

* * *

_Mrs. Malfoy, _

_You are correct on many fronts. Do not delude yourself into believing that you can change the hunger in my son's stomach for more. He is a Malfoy, and Malfoy men have always wanted more, strived for more, even when what they had was enough. _

_Do not believe that his thirst for blood will dissipate, for he has Black blood running through his veins and we are a lot fueled by bloodlust and revenge. _

_Do not mistake his passions for affection, or his desire for trust—Malfoy men know nothing of their own feelings, and crave the submergence of their selves more than the honesty of their souls. Draco is no different—he admired his father too much to be. _

_So, helping him and protecting him are jobs that will come at great sacrifice. Do not convince yourself that you will teach him to sacrifice in return, because it is a fool's errand, and you would not have been the first Mrs. Malfoy to have tried only to fail. He is selfish. He is arrogant. But he is my son. If you love him, then accept these truths, and love him. _

_In light of this, if you still wish for my advice, then I will tell you the only advice worth hearing: Malfoy women are strong when Malfoy men can't be. Never forget this, and you will help him when it matters most—when the time comes when he is unable to help himself._

_Sincerely, _

_Narcissa Malfoy _

Hermione read the letter carefully at dinner, confusion, hope, and despair crashing inside of her. She knew there was truth to Narcissa's words, but her heart couldn't let her accept all of it; instead, she refocused on the food, and tried to smile at something Ginny was saying.

She wasn't sure if she'd gotten what she'd been after in her letter, but a convoluted and confusing answer was always better than no answer at all.

* * *

Once Draco arrived back at Hogwarts, through the floo in Snape's office, he took a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a glorious moment that gave him respite from the amalgamation of despair, and optimism that roared and lived inside of him.

"Have fun?" Snape's dry voice penetrated Draco's moment of relief. His eyes snapped open as though the Dark Lord had arrived behind him. Snape saw the reaction, raised an eyebrow in mocking question, but said nothing.

"As much fun as possible," Draco smirked—his mask restored and in place. He went to move towards the gargoyle and staircase, but Snape stopped him cold.

"Your father wishes to see you."

"Why?"

"Do I look like his keeper?"

Draco's smirk grew into an incorrigible grin, but he said nothing. Snape glared in return, and it was so comfortable, so _normal_, that Draco felt himself relax like he hadn't in months.

He swaggered over to the high chair that had belonged to the late Albus Dumbledore, and lounged across it as though he owned it.

Snape's jaw clenched furiously in annoyance, and Draco couldn't help the light chuckle that escaped him.

"Come now, uncle Sev," Draco grinned boyishly at him. "You know I do it just to annoy you."

"Yes, well," Lucius interrupted Snape's reply as he walked imperiously out from the fireplace. "You should know by now that Severus doesn't have much of a sense of humor."

Draco let his eyes rake over his father's figure, taking in the pressed and expensive cloak, the dangerous looking cane which housed his wand, and Lucius' impeccably groomed hair. His chin was just as stubborn as ever, and his frame looked full and healthy.

The father that he'd been in Sixth Year was gone, in place of the father he'd always known. Perhaps, Draco surmised, Sixth Year was a bad year for _everyone_.

"Hello, father," Draco's smile dimmed, but was genuine. "How are things?"

_How is Mrs. Malfoy?_

"Things are as they should be," Lucius touched his son on the shoulder, much like Voldemort had. Only this touch didn't remind Draco of his power or reach.

"Then why the visit?"

"I shall leave you two to talk," Snape said graciously. His black robes billowed around him as he spun to leave, but Lucius stopped him.

"Nonsense. You're family, Severus," Lucius waved him over, and shoved at Draco to get out of the Headmaster's chair. Draco lifted his hands in surrender, and regally removed himself.

Snape rolled his eyes at the dramatics of the Malfoy's, and for just a second, Draco forgot that he was a Lord now, and married. For a moment, it was Yule break in Third Year, during the Winter Solstice, and he was content and innocent. They all were.

"_Draco," Narcissa had scolded him as Madame Guillermo tried to measure him for a pair of special robes for that night. _

"_Can I go, yet?" Draco had whined. "Theo and Blaise are waiting for me downstairs." _

"_Yes," Narcissa had ran her hands lovingly through his hair. "And they will wait a few more minutes. Honestly, Draco, you'd think the world was at stake the way you go about sometimes." _

"_Not the world—just my sanity," he muttered. Narcissa frowned, and he sighed deeply. He raised one hand to let it run through his locks, which he'd started to let loose and grow out at the beginning of the year. _

_Finally, Madame Guillermo put her wand down, and turned towards the mounds of fabrics and colors. Draco looked to his mother, her blonde hair pulled up and high for the celebrations that night. He pleaded silently with his eyes. _

"_Fine, yes, go have fun," Narcissa shook her head in exasperation. Draco fled without another word from his lips, trusting that everything was right in the world, and that his parents would protect him from all. _

_She wanted to yell out to him that Malfoy's did not run, but yelling through the Manor would have been horribly _common_. _

_Draco, on the other hand, had zero qualms about acting like a commoner, and raced through the Manor in search of his friends. He was thirteen—fourteen soon, and he couldn't wait. He'd be fourteen, nearly a man, win the Quidditch cup for his house this year, and lord himself over Potter and Weasley._

"_Where are you off to in such a hurry?" Snape's voice had stopped Draco in his tracks. _

"_On my way to Theo, and Blaise." _

"_Where are your manners, Draco?" Lucius' disapproving tone had cut in. His presence wasn't as large as it had been when he was a child, but it was still large enough to intimidate him, dominate him. _

"_Sorry," he tried to hide the bitterness in his eyes. Those days, his father had always seemed disappointed in him. Draco had felt as though he couldn't do anything right. So, instead, he turned to Snape, a welcoming smile on his face. "Happy Yuletide, Uncle Sev!"_

_Snape had smiled winsomely in that rare fashion of his. His eyes were as dark as ever, but they shined like obsidian. Nonetheless, he still drawled, "You better walk slower. If Narcissa sees you galloping down the halls, there'll be hell to pay."_

"_He's only saying that to show me that he has parent potential," a beautiful dark haired beauty had come out from behind Lucius and Snape. _

"_Son, this is Marietta LunKimper," Lucius had smirked slyly, genuine joy in his eyes. "Severus's betrothed." _

"_Almost betrothed," Snape had almost snarled grumpily, and refocused on Marietta. "And I deal with children almost all year round. That should speak for itself in favor of my 'parental potential'" _

_Marietta laughed, and her laughter twinkled and reverberated in Draco's heart. She was like a shiny galleon that would never get old, and he had instantly liked her. _

"_Go get Theo and Blaise before the ceremony under the stars begins," Lucius had ushered Draco away in his typical stern and polished fashion. "Last year Theo missed it because _someone_ had left him stuck in the Clock Room, and wasn't blessed by the moon—you know how well that turned out. The whole year the boy was left without grace and favor. I want all of you boys ready long before the ritual begins. Merlin knows you three need as much help as you can get." _

_Draco had nodded, a slight blush in his cheeks, and took off running towards his friends. But when he had found them, he completely forgot about being on time for the Winter Solstice ritual, and instead had smirked roguishly at his friends._

"_You'll never guess who I met."_

"_Who?" Blaise had tilted his head, always eager for new gossip. _

"_Marietta LunKimper!"_

"_Of the Southern LunKimpers?" Theo had inquired while he lazily looked for hidden liquor. "Wasn't there a scandal about the last LunKimper killing a LeStrange twenty years back?" _

"_No, no" Blaise had rolled his eyes in exasperation. "That was a Duton. The last male heir of LunKimper died in a battle against a vampire he was trying to mate with a few years ago—rather strange way to die, honestly."_

"_Well, were they mating or fighting?" Theo had been crawling underneath the table, in search of a loose floorboard he knew was there. _

"_Won't lie, mate," Blaise had wiggled his eyebrows. "They were doing both! Heard a bloke down in Batton—you know, the restaurant my mother likes—say that apparently mating with a vampire can be brutal. Not sure how, really, but—"_

"_Not the point," Draco had pursed his lips. "The point is that she's apparently set to marry Uncle Sev!" _

"_I wonder how they met?" _

"_I wonder how he got her—LunKimper women are notoriously beautiful!" _

"_I wonder why it's not set in stone yet—think he can't pay?" _

_In all the fuss, the boys had forgotten about making the Solstice ritual. _

Draco smiled thoughtfully at a past that he missed dearly. The following year the Dark Lord had returned, and Draco wished now that they had attended the ritual—perhaps the moon and the Earth would smile on them now, in their time of need.

"The Dark Lord thinks you've chosen our side," Lucius cut to the chase. He'd always been a straight-to-the-point, no dillydallying around the issue type when it came to Draco. "He thinks that Potter can't win."

"So?"

Draco masked his features with confusion, but it wasn't true, and everyone in the room knew it. Lucius was looking for clarification. He was looking for an assurance he wouldn't find.

"Is it true?" His voice was hard and Draco couldn't figure out if this was a father asking his son, or a Death Eater asking his brother-in-arms.

"The Dark Lord will win," Draco answered in a very Slytherin fashion, but Lucius knew his son well. Proclaiming that the Dark Lord would win wasn't the same as saying that Draco had _chosen_ their side. Blood shed wasn't the same as unwavering loyalty.

But Lucius couldn't ask. He couldn't be _too direct_, because if Draco gave the wrong answer, it could be the death of them all. It could mean the end of _his son_, the one person whose life Lucius valued more than his own.

Lucius turned and nodded at Snape. It was a silent message: _talk sense into him before it's too late_.

"Is that all you wanted?" Draco pushed. He pushed because he was a warrior, and he didn't know any other way.

"You and Theo have been chosen to begin recruiting at Hogwarts," he replied tersely, a severe frown marring his handsome face. "The Dark Lord expects _results_."

"Then he'll have them," Draco nodded, relief flooding his body that they wouldn't have to deal with more Death Eaters at Hogwarts. He didn't bother questioning or caring why the Dark Lord didn't tell him himself when he'd been with him; it was just another move, another little game. But the relief was short lived as Hermione's fearful eyes flashed before him. Hermione's desperate pleas muted the world around him. Her tender kiss shook his core, and found himself warning his father without thought. "But they won't be taking the mark. We'll recruit them, but I won't be sending anyone off to get marked—not until they're of age."

"Draco," Snape said his name warningly, as Lucius spun around, anger trying to mask the fear in his eyes—the fear for his son. Lucius' heart felt as though it would run away from him, but his figure was tense, coiled, a veil in of itself that only came with years of pretending.

"Be very careful how you tread, son."

"I'm loyal," Draco said passionately, "But I won't send _kids_ to be marked—not yet. Not until we've won this war unarguably. When we've crushed the Light side, then I'll take them to be marked myself, but not before then. Not until I know the mark won't mean a one-way ticket to Azkaban."

"That's not your choice," Lucius cautioned him, a dark look on his face.

"It is, unless the Dark Lord wants to send in more Death Eaters, and scare them enough to _go home_ instead of _joining him_."

"You're playing a dangerous game, Draco," Snape interceded between Lucius could lose his temper. The man loved his son, but it was this love that spurned an unimaginable fear that unleashed itself as fury—a fury that could attack Draco swiftly, without pause and with too much regret that never saw apologies.

Draco knew that this was only a temporary solution; Lucius wouldn't tell the Dark Lord anything other than Draco would handle it, and try to postpone Voldemort's attention until he could no longer, and the Dark Lord would demand the Hogwarts recruits be brought to him. He knew. But it didn't matter.

Lucius loved him, and he'd protect his son as long as he was able. As long as his fear didn't overtake his love—fear for Draco, and fear for _himself_.

The clicking of a clock was the only sound in the stillness as Lucius walked stiffly to the floo. Draco saw his father's back, so proud and weary simultaneously, and he couldn't help but resort to Snape's peace-keeping.

"At least I'm playing the game, and not letting it play me."

Lucius turned, red floo powder in hand (expensive because the traveler didn't need to shout out their location), anger and despair mixed so beautifully and painfully upon his face. The lines on his face spoke of years of regret, and wisdom gained the hard way.

He faced his son with the only words of wisdom he could think to impart.

"Potter's prophecy doesn't speak of the _war_. It speaks of the Dark Lord's downfall. He may have started this war but it won't end with him," Lucius said gravely, the fire in the chimney sailing outwards and inwards until he was gone, like hope. Like the possibility of love, and innocence.

Silence embraced Draco and Snape for a few moments where they did nothing but wish for the past, and a simpler time.

"Have you thought about what you're going to do?" Snape broke the hush in that no-nonsense way of his that could so easily grate on a student's nerve. He was pushy too—another warrior.

"What can I do?"

"You're a dragon."

"That means nothing!"

"Your prophecy doesn't mean _nothing!_" Snape snarled, almost ferally. "If Potter can be hailed as the next wizarding savior because of his prophecy then your prophecy most definitely means something!"

"Prophecies only matter to the people who believe in them," Draco said, unconvinced.

"You were _born under fire_," Snape growled frustrated. "It's been decreed that the _heavens will never abandon their dragon_. There's no doubt that whatever side you choose will win. The _real _question is which side you'll choose?"

"I'm not Potter," Draco snarled. "You don't get to put that on me. I live my life for myself."

"And your wife?" Snape asked his pointedly.

_And your wife?_

_How is Mrs. Malfoy_?

"Don't even, Severus," Draco turned away from him, face stoic. "Because this war won't be won by blokes like me, or you. We're not the saints of this war. And no matter what I may or may not have to offer, it won't be the deciding factor. I'd think that one prophecy deciding the war is enough."

"You say that, but you heard your father. Potter's prophecy has nothing to do with the actual war. You say that, but it's just because you have yet to realize what I already know," Snape eyes softened for a moment. This wasn't a professor speaking to his student. This wasn't a death-eater speaking to his brethren. This was a godfather speaking to his godson, and it'd been _too long_.

"What's that?"

"That you _are_ a good person, Dragon," Snape said softly. "You already are one of the saints in this war—whether you want to admit it or not, whether you want to _see_ it or not."

"Tell that to the people I've killed."

Draco walked away without another word.

All the while, Harry's eyes, that'd been hiding in Snape's office under the cloak, were like saucers in the night sky, as he took in all that he had heard.

* * *

It was only a short time later, as Draco was trudging down an empty hallway, on his way to a meeting with Snape and Theo to decide how they would recruit, when Harry appeared, cloaked in the miseries of all their sorrows and secrets.

"Got something to say, Potter?" Draco drawled, his dispassionate mask flawless as always.

Draco wasn't a fool. He'd felt the tension in the air when he'd arrived earlier. It didn't matter to him that it'd been dissipating. All that mattered was that it'd been there, _existed_, and _over his goddamned body_ would that ever be okay with him.

"I saw you—with Snape." Harry didn't mince words. "I _heard_ you."

"For Merlin's bloody sake, Potter! Your stalker tendencies are getting out of hand," Draco practically exploded. Harry glared, but didn't respond. Draco gritted his teeth. "What _exactly_ do you think you know?"

"I know enough to know that I'm not the only one with a destiny. With a decision to make."

"Worry about your own problems, Potter," Draco said stiffly. He'd hated Harry for too long for that to disappear, for him to welcome Harry's nose in his business. It also didn't help that just looking at Harry sent Draco's heartbeat skyrocketing in possessive anger because his mind wouldn't stop conjuring the image of Harry and Hermione together.

But Harry wasn't blind. He knew, without words, what the barrier was. He was a teenage boy, and he'd felt similar feelings before, so to him, the problem was clear.

"She's your wife, I get it." Harry pierced him with his eyes, so green, so hard, so unfathomably filled with genuine loathing, and hope. But despite it all, Harry was waving the white flag. It wasn't a typical flag, with its scars, and holes, but it was a flag nonetheless.

Draco took it for what it was: a declaration to appease the animal, the dragon, roaring inside of him to kill, burn, and shred any living soul that looked at Hermione with the kind of bottomless emotion that Harry Potter did.

"_Fucking right, she is_," Draco snarled, clenched his jaw, and nodded his head. "_So keep your hands off her_."

Harry nodded once.

The fire simmered; they understood each other. It was strange, but not unwelcome—they'd been at war, feuding for no other reason than on principle for so long that the settling of animus and antipathy was a welcome reprieve from the hatred that rose into the air and could consume.

"She's your wife," Harry repeated, but the wind couldn't carry away the devotion to Hermione that leaked through. "So treat her right."

"I don't abuse her, Potter," Draco scowled at him, slightly appalled, but not wholly surprised. "I'm not _that_ much of a monster."

"It's not about being a monster," Harry ran his hand through his hair for a moment—lost, but trying so hard to find himself in the mixture of war and growing up. "It's about treating women with respect—treating _your wife_ with respect."

"I'm not you, Potter," Draco squared his shoulders. He did the best he could, but he wasn't Harry Potter, and he'd never be him. All he could do was try, and that would have to be enough. "I won't scrape and bow at her feet. She's not a doll to be protected. Not if she's my wife. Not if she ever plans to survive being a Malfoy."

"Then why hide things from her?" Harry lashed back, fire raging in his emerald gaze. He could feel the apathy overwhelming him, could feel it stirring in his stomach and making it lurch and shake. "Why hide things? Because I _know_ she doesn't know about your prophecy—it's obvious she doesn't. And when you're not hiding things, you're making her go against everything she's ever believed."

"You mean I'm making her go against _you_," Draco said sharply. If Potter wanted this battle, then he could have it, because he'd grown to detest Harry even more after he married the woman who idolized him.

"The _Light_ Side."

"Wake the fuck up, Potter!" Draco sneered. "_The light side? _Really? If you think this is about light and dark you're delusional. This is about _power_, and who has it. You think Granger's choosing my side? You think she's slowly rallying around the Dark Lord? No—she's a survivor. She's a _Malfoy_ and she'll play the cards she's dealt. She's not choosing me over you—half the fucking time she wishes I _was_ you!"

The masks and pretenses were gone. Their truths and emotions whipped and crashed against them like the harshest tidal wave crashing against rocks.

He hadn't meant to say that, but the words, so bitter and true, had flung themselves from his tongue without restraint. He hadn't been aware of how much that truth had been eating at him since he saw them together, earlier in the day. But something lifted off his stomach. The ache was gone. Because she knew who he was, and inexplicably, Draco felt like he'd forgotten who she was.

She was Harry Potter's best friend, whether she was Hermione Granger or Hermione Malfoy. That hadn't changed, and it wouldn't. She was Harry Potter's best friend, and after the horrors he'd exposed her to, Draco felt that he owed her enough to be civil to Harry, if only because he'd caused her so much pain already—if only because he knew he would cause her even more pain before this war was through.

"What do you want from me, Potter?" Draco asked quietly. The only truthful and genuine question he'd ever asked the Boy-Who-Lived. Maybe the only candid question he would ever ask him.

Harry saw the question for what it was: a moment to be honest, a moment to be two men who loved the same woman fiercely, wholly, in their own different ways.

"I want you to never lie to her—never disrespect her. Believe in her, because you're her husband and she'll never stop believing in you, even if she never says it. _Trust_ her enough to not play her like a pawn in your twisted mind games for power. Don't try to dominate her—let her stand right at your side, because that's the only place she deserves to be. That's the only place she's ever been, at _my_ side, since we were eleven, and she doesn't know how to be anywhere else."

Harry's honesty was the dusk of peace washing over them both. Because friendship and love were two of the greatest moving forces on the Earth, and neither were immune to the sway it had in their common ground.

"I can't promise you anything," Draco sighed, tired, but unwilling to stop fighting because to stop was to give up and _dragons don't ever give up_. "But I'll try. For _her_, I'll try."

It was the closest words Draco had ever said to _I love you_—_I love her_.

Harry heard it anyway, and he knew that he'd never love Ginny the way that Draco must love Hermione—even if he'd never say it. Even if he couldn't admit it to himself.

An image of blonde hair and silvery blue eyes that always made him feel _everything_ flashed across his mind.

It was the kind of truth he hadn't been prepared for, and it _hurt_.

* * *

The darkness was like a cloak sometimes that caressed Draco and gave him the strength to be anyone he wanted to be. Sometimes it gave him the ability to be the _best_ Death Eater. Other times it allowed him the strength to be a decent husband. But on a night like tonight, all he wanted to be was anyone but himself—someone without burdens and worries.

Draco sat on the mahogany colored armchair that faced the bar he'd had installed, parallel the fireplace, _milk and honey_ in his hands, a muggle book that'd been in the lobby of their hotel suite. He'd been reading it for days whenever he got the chance.

He had charmed it so that no one could see its real title. He didn't understand the book of poems, but he felt that if he did understand—if he could truly grasp what it said, then maybe he could understand something about himself. About his wife.

_But this wasn't who he wanted to be tonight_, and so he set the book aside, sighed, and ignored the urge to reach for a glass of whiskey. He tried to think of a person who smiled a lot, and danced even more. This person liked to sing too, and so Draco caught the beat of the first song his mind conjured.

He couldn't help the smile that formed on his face, because, really, who wouldn't smile?

For a moment, Draco wasn't a Death Eater, or a dragon, or a Lord by rights. He was just a boy, nearly fourteen, uncontainable in every way, belting out his favorite song.

"So, won't you fly with me? I wanna make you feel alright, alright with me. Let me mend your broken wings, and set you free girl, it's alright. Girl can't you see—"

"Are you singing a muggle song?" Hermione interrupted Draco, a supercilious smirk on her face that could rival his any day.

Draco turned his head towards the door, and looked upon Hermione. It'd been such a long day that he couldn't help the way his body practically thrummed in the anticipation of being buried deep inside of her. _So fucking deep_.

He was himself again, carelessness gone from his face, weariness set again in his bones, the burden of so much heavy on his shoulders, but in moments like these, when he knew Hermione could sooth him, it wasn't so bad to be him.

"I absolutely was not," Draco said haughtily, but she saw the desire in his eyes. Frankly, she couldn't help sashaying her hips as she let the door to their bedroom close behind her, and walked towards him.

It was almost like a mating dance—what they said, versus what their bodies shouted.

"That was 98 degrees," Hermione went to pass him, but Draco grabbed her arm, and hauled her onto his lap. She squealed in surprise, but Draco's lips were nipping at her neck and ear _so deliciously. _

"You won't distract me," she said breathily, as she maneuvered her body comfortingly on top of his, legs on either side of him, hands unbuttoning his shirt, hips rolling over the length of him that was hard and straining. "That's a muggle boy band."

Draco's hands slapped Hermione's backside, mischief in his eyes. "That band isn't muggle, Granger. The song is called _Fly With Me_, and they have another called _Invisible Man_. Their songs are played on Wizarding radio. They are most definitely not muggle."

His words did nothing to stop the trail of kisses he left on her chest, shirt removed magically with a flick of his wrist. Hermione didn't comment at the sudden shift between them. They needed this, she knew they did. They needed to just be _them_ for a moment, without the bloodshed lingering in the space between.

They needed to—_yes, yes, right there_.

Draco's fingers entered her from the same angle he'd spanked her, and Hermione moaned into his mouth.

They were fire, and so fucking content.

_I love you_

_Like that? _

_Yes, yes. _

_Tell me you'd rather have me than anyone else? _

_I'd rather have you, yeah—just like that, you, nobody else. _

_Never?_

_Never, never. _

Her body was—_oh_. Sometime between her plea and her admission, Draco had removed his own pants magically, and she could feel him, hot, wanting, against her.

Her hands gripped at his hair, pulling hard, and Draco hissed his approval as he rutted against her.

His hands never stopped their rhythm, and Hermione never stopped—never stopped pulling, biting, _clawing_ because she wanted him inside of her. She wanted him to remind her how explosive and _everything_ they could be, in that good way.

In that magic-is-real awesome way.

But before she could beg for his passion, for his incessant pounding inside of her, Hermione's body started to explode in tiny little bombs that caused her to mewl and rock desperately.

_That's my girl. _

_Fuck, fuck_

_That's it—cum for me, all for me_

_Yes, yes—only for you—please, please. _

Her body was high enough to touch heaven, and Draco, without remorse or thought, lifted her, and impaled her to the hilt, eyes wide and hungry. Oh, they were _so damned hungry_.

Hermione's screams of pleasure bounced around them, though neither bothered with a silencing charm. She was his. He wanted the world to know it, to grasp just how fully she belonged to him.

She knew that he needed to claim her like this, and she wanted to be claimed like this, too.

_Spank me_

_Fuck, yes. _

His hand was soft and hard against her, dominating her, but he knew he was at her mercy. He knew that he was kneeling at her feet, because he'd do anything for her. He'd do anything for her, and it made his chest ache at the truth of it.

He was just as much hers as she was his—she'd lain claim to him long ago.

Draco's thoughts were a jumbled mess, and he couldn't reason properly. His hands stopped bouncing her on him, and ground her against him.

Her electric moans were replaced by breathy sighs, and a twitching that was so sporadic it was almost _too sweet_.

_I love you, _she almost sobbed against his lips, and Draco couldn't stop himself. He couldn't help himself either.

_Fuck, yes, love me, Granger. Love. Me. _

_I do, I do. _

_Fuck, I love you—_and it was like the walls closed in on him, because he'd never said it before, and he wasn't sure if he meant it.

She wasn't sure if he meant it, either, but it felt _so good_ to hear it.

_I know, I know_, and maybe she really did know. Or maybe what had begun as unpredictable and volatile had culminated into something more real.

Draco's hands were everywhere suddenly, and time sped up. They were rushing, and frantic, so full, yet never full enough.

Draco slammed into her suddenly like he was a man at war, fighting for his life, if only he could possess her fully, consume her to his own salvation and triumph.

Hermione's twitching escalated, and her body couldn't decide if she wanted him deeper or further away.

_Say it again_, she commanded.

_I love you_, he obeyed, eyes clenched shut in ecstasy.

_I'm yours_, she whispered as she pushed him away and Draco knew her body couldn't take another orgasm.

_Mine, all fucking mine._

She knelt at his feet, breasts glistening with sweat, body heaving like she'd run a marathon, _fucking glorious_.

Draco groaned, unable to contain himself at the image she presented. But his mind was gone a second later as Hermione tasted him for the first time—pink tongue against the tip, once, twice, the taste of him mixed with her own juices filling her mouth, then her bow-shaped mouth wrapped around him, cheeks hollow as she sucked—and he was undone.

It would've been embarrassing, except that he could see the pleasure in her eyes. It would've been mortifying, except she swallowed every drop, and Draco couldn't help but push further in her mouth just to hear her gag.

He would've been ashamed at his instinctual response, except he could see her hand slip between her legs, and Draco knew she enjoyed it.

They were one in this moment of bliss, of letting go.

But nothing could ever last forever, not with them, not with how fierce and unforgiving they were. Not with how much they cared, and wished that they didn't.

"What's on your mind?" Hermione asked a moment later, when the haze of fulfillment and lust lifted enough for both of them to breathe, though she was still on her knees, and he was still sitting in the armchair.

"What do you mean?"

"I _mean_, what's on your mind?" Hermione pushed, because they'd been married long enough for her to know when something was bothering him. They'd been married long enough for that instinctual knowledge to feel like a victory.

He wanted to lie, to avoid, to deflect because he knew he was good at it. He could give her a thousand and one feasible answers, but he'd said _I love you_, and he wasn't sure if it was true or not. He wasn't sure if he was duty bound to honor it or not.

"I saw my father today."

"You love your father," Hermione said cautiously. She could see that something wasn't quite right, but Draco seeing his father shouldn't have been cause for concern.

"I do," he traced her cheekbone with his finger. "But he came with orders."

Hermione didn't say a word—she couldn't. There was a ball of dread in the pit of her stomach that wouldn't let her speak or move.

"They're not sending more Death Eaters," Draco lead with the bright side, a twitch in his lips attempted a smile. But there was no use, and it quickly unmasked itself as a grimace.

"But?" Hermione whispered. Her heart was racing, eyes trying to dig into his soul.

"But I'm expected to recruit for the Dark Lord."

There it was. His burden. His sadness, and her eyes filled with betrayal and tears.

She tried to get up and away from him, but Draco held her firmly in place with his hands digging into her forearm—he couldn't let her go. He didn't want to. Not when they seemed to have so much between them, so much _more_ than there was before.

"You coward!" Hermione yelled, thrashing against him, arms flailing, hitting him like horror and heartbreak. "How could you? How could you say yes? Don't you know that they're kids? Spineless!"

Just like that the blood was between them again, and all she could see was the blood. All she could see were his clothes bathed in blood, and his chest and arms covered in _proof_.

She wanted to claw her way to his very core to see what he was made of, but Draco hissed in pain. She could feel the Snake on his skin slithering against hers.

The Dark Lord was calling him.

_How could you?_ But Draco let her arms go, his own body scratched and bleeding at her feral response. She didn't move. She stayed, still, legs bent as she sat on the floor, disillusioned once again.

_How could you? _Draco stood, but though he was towering over her, he didn't feel powerful. He didn't feel worthy.

_How is Mrs. Malfoy?_

_You're good person, Dragon._

_Tell that to the people I've killed. _

The entire day rushed at him, circled around him, making his knees quake.

_How could you_?

His mark burned, a constant reminder that he was a slave, and resentment bubbled. Fear crashed around him because he wasn't sure how much longer he could play this dangerous game. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep his sanity—wanting Hermione the way he did, craving power the way he did, and feeling fear as wholly as he did.

But Hermione could only see the blood, the admission of guilt. She could only see him looming over her, ready to leave, whispers of love forgotten in favor of a greater master than her, a greater priority than her.

She thought they were past this, that he was better than this.

"Off to do _their _dirty work, huh," Hermione sneered. "Just like a _good little soldier_."

Draco's hand twitched so hard, she almost thought he'd hit her. His eyes were wild and untamed, much like all of him when he was inside of her.

He moved away from her, and about the room like a caged animal. Maybe he was. Perhaps they both were, and they just didn't know how to articulate their fury at their lack of freedom.

Nevertheless, she never stopped watching, and he never stopped reveling in the feeling of being watched by her. But he was slowly being crushed from the inside out.

_You're playing a dangerous game, Draco._

_I love you_

_I'm yours. _

He stopped prowling, shoulder tense, eyes burning into her.

"Get it together, Granger," Draco said slowly, pointedly, voice full of emotion—demons clawing to get loose. "Get it together, because we both can't fall apart, and I need a damn turn."

His words were brutal in their honesty, and manipulative in their simplicity. Draco _did_ need a turn, but he'd just about had it with Hermione milking her turn for all it was worth. She was better than this, _stronger_ than this. He knew she was, and he was over allowing her time to grieve the life she used to have, could have had still if she'd chosen differently.

She didn't choose differently. She chose him. These were the facts, and Draco didn't have it in him, not today, to deal with the hints of _what if_ that seemed to plague their conversations.

Didn't she see how much this tore at him? Couldn't she see?

But Hermione was too busy seeing her own distorted soul, because through it all, despite time and time again coming face to face with the reality of their life, _his choices_, she could love him.

She could love him, and she knew she wouldn't stop once she did. She wasn't sure how to stop, and suddenly _I love you_ wasn't such a lie.

"You're a monster," she whispered.

Draco unclenched his fist, and walked towards her—her breasts still glistened with sweat, visible in the moonlight that shined through the enchanted window.

He knelt and touched his forward to hers. "I know."

_I love you. _

Tears trailed down Hermione's face because she knew they would never be the same again.

* * *

So, what do you guys think? Liked it? Hated? Let me know and review! **Reviews are love**


	12. The Struggles of the Mighty

Disclaimer – I own nothing.

A.N – Hey guys! I know, it feels like it's been forever! So sorry it's taken me so long to upload this chapter, but I've rewritten and rearranged it about a thousand times. I honestly debated whether or not to upload this version or to revise it one more time—I've literally poured my sweat and tears all these months trying to work through this, so hopefully everyone enjoys!

As always, a gigantic THANK YOU to **ellabelle12 **for being my beta. Without you this chapter would probably have taken an entire year to see the light of day!

To **JayBat**, **mami1**, **SPECKto Patronum**, **Genevieve**, **Guest (1)**, **rosejpotter**, **katelynnwho**, **Guest(2)**, **Ein011**, **Guest (3)**, **Guest (4)**, **Your fan**, **Guest (5)**, **Refictionista**, **Chrysanthemums5**, **Guest (6)**, **moonscape-iron**, **The Griffindor Hatstall**, **TheseLittleWonders**, **Marilyn**, **vickety**, **Moogirl**, **ashenrenee**, **lovely maychan**, **SmartKoala**, **estrellaastra**, **Beauty Eclipsed**, **Jhuffy**, **riversgirl75**, **Rafaela**, **KissStarryDreams**, **Guest (7)**, **pancake-potch**, **Beth**, **Guest (8)**, **Green Eyed Lana Lee**, **Kyonomiko**, **WarMad13**, **Jess6800**, **Nargles Inspector**, **viola1701e**, **brigittar**, **Chanberra**, **Aequa**, **LABM**, **Nichole O**, **SilentFrenzy**, **xXMizz Alec VolturiXx**, **crookshanks the kitty**, **Chester99**, **Dolphin02**, **whitewallskill**: You guys rock so immensely that I'm sending each and every one of you massive mental hugs right now. Throughout the craziness that was creating this chapter, I must've reread your reviews at least a couple dozen times—sometimes for inspiration, sometimes for support, and sometimes simply to smile because your thoughts always put a smile on my face. From the bottom of my heart THANK YOU. On that note, I've got a little surprise in there for you guys ;)

_/Let me in on all your secrets—no inhibitions, no sin_

_How deep is your love? Is it like the ocean? What devotion are you?_

_How deep is your love? Is it like nirvana? _

_Hit me harder, again/_

-How Deep Is Your Love, Ali Brustofski

Chapter 12 – The Struggles of the Mighty

There are moments when you first meet someone that your heart stutters, and the wind stops swaying. It's like the entire Earth decides that _this _moment is the one that should be witnessed, that _this_ moment should be remembered forever.

But no one ever noticed except _him_. Except _her. _

"_Excuse me," Minerva said automatically when she brushed shoulders with someone in Diagon Alley. _

"_Please," Tom smiled charmingly, in that manner that was utterly his. "If I knew such beauty awaited me, I would bump into people more often." _

"_Empty flattery is not much flattery at all, sirrah," Minerva lifted her nose haughtily. Her eyes clashed with his, and together, a new world was born. _

"_Tom," he pronounced breathily, uncomfortable with this new sensation. "Tom Riddle." _

_She wanted to be silent. She wanted to walk away from a man who was so arrogant. But there was too much living inside of her. There was too much _promise_ in his eyes. _

"_Minerva," she whispered. But he heard her as though she were the only voice in the world that he could hear. "Minerva McGonagall." _

_Minerva McGonagall: a woman who was barely a woman at the tender age of 18, bright eyed, innocent in her sagacity. _

_Tom Riddle: a man at 27, who had never been a boy at all, cynical, dangerous in his ignorance and rage. _

_Who would've ever thought they would be the story that was never told._

* * *

When Hermione entered their room, it was alight with candles, and there was soft music playing in the background. She felt like she had walked into a different world, a different life where love was something simple, beautiful, and utterly magical.

Shadows danced across Draco's pale skin. He wore a crisp white shirt that was stark against the backdrop of the dim lighted bedroom. There was a bottle of goblin made wine on the glass stained coffee table near the leather sofa. Next to it was a pearl necklace from a Hungarian Horntail—they gave birth to the best pearls, and only the best for a Malfoy.

The music sweeping through the room like a gentle breeze was _Underwater_—an up and coming singer who was half veela, half mermaid, who sung so heavenly that the prices to see her in live concert were ridiculous.

"Are you still mad at me?" Draco asked her quietly.

His grey eyes pinned her in place, reminded her that he was her husband and she'd rather be bound to him than anyone else. There was a glass of bourbon in his hands, and Hermione couldn't help but smile slightly at the sight that had somehow become comforting. Apparently the goblin-made wine was for her.

_Are you still mad at me?_

She was. She didn't know how not to be. Not when he did such horrendous things in the name of Voldemort. Not when he was going to recruit children to a cause she'd never stand behind.

_Are you still mad at me?_

She was. She _really_ was, but they were married. They were married, and they needed to learn to move past it all, so they didn't break.

"I don't want to be," Hermione murmured, and finished walking in. She leaned her hip against the empty leather sofa chair. "But they're kids, Malfoy. They're _just kids_, and if we bring them head first into this war, that's on us. That's on _you_. And that's not okay."

"I know." He set the bottle of bourbon down and walked towards her like she was a wounded animal. He raised his hand and gently stroked her cheek. "But, you know I'm in a precarious situation. One wrong move and all my favor goes out the window. I can't just _disobey_."

"Why not?"

"Things aren't that simple," Draco sighed in frustration and an acute sense of helplessness that he couldn't seem to shake completely. "I don't want to fight with you. You're my _wife_. I don't want you to be mad or scared, or—you're my _wife_ and I made a promise to you. I promised you _everything_ that I could give, and it's harder to give that to you than I thought it'd be."

She lifted her hand and let it rest against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat, and it was like its own seductive song. She reveled in the feeling of _home_ that simply touching him could evoke.

"But you don't want a wife," Hermione peered into _their_ truth. "You never did, not really. You wanted someone to command, not an equal partner to lean on when things got hard."

"I know things are hard for you," he looked away from her. He knew he hadn't been easy on her. But she hadn't been easy on him, either. "I know _this_, all of this, hasn't been what either of us expected."

"But you're not sorry," Hermione cut him off fiercely. She didn't want to apologize, and she didn't need his apologies. This was better. This was _more_. "You're never sorry, Malfoy. And that's okay because I'm still yours. I'll _always be yours._"

He let out a dry laugh, and let his forehead fall on hers. They were connected like they'd always been, but there was an honesty between them now. One of their greatest truths was between them now—zero pretenses; he was mostly without remorse, and she'd accept him anyway…because she cared too much not to.

"I know, Granger," Draco sighed achingly. "_I'm yours, too_, but it's so damn _hard_. _Being with you_ is hard. Living up to who you wish I was is so damned hard_—too hard_."

"I know—I know," she choked out. She never wanted _them_ to transform into people who couldn't handle hard truths or each other's anger. "I know I'm hard to handle, difficult to be with, but so are you. So are you, Malfoy, and we just have to struggle every day to never stop caring. Even when we're wrong. Even when we do things that'll never be okay…All I ask is that you _try_. Just _try_ to do the right thing—even if you don't succeed, trying does count for something."

"You say it like it's so easy?" he smiled bitterly. "I'm a Death Eater, Granger. Fuck it, I even _like_ being a Death Eater sometimes. The power, the _rush_. I feel like a king. Like the master of the universe, and _nothing_, not my father and his expectations, not you and your hopes, not the Dark Lord and his manipulations and games—_nothing_ can touch me. That's who I am. Eventually, you'll come to hate me, y'know. Eventually, you'll resent ever having made the choice to marry me."

He knew he was right. But she also knew that she'd never accept that.

She'd fight, because she was Hermione Malfoy and Malfoy women were born fighters.

"Maybe, but then you'll kiss me and make love to me, and I'll forget it all."

"Am I that good?"

"No, you're that cruel. But _you're mine too_."

Draco let the glass fall to the floor. It crashed and shattered into pieces as his lips descended on hers with a hunger that was always struggling to get free.

Hermione moaned into his mouth, and for the first time in a long time, they were at peace.

* * *

_Lunch was safe—less serious than dinner, but more appropriate than breakfast. Her stomach flipped and flopped. She wanted to know him. _

_She wanted him to know her. _

"_How old are you?"_—_typical first date question_, _but Tom was anything but typical. He was the lava inside of a volcano, churning and waiting to burst and destroy everything in his path. _

"_I do not do lunch dates, my dear, unless they are political. And I have zero patience for small talk." He didn't want to give her illusions. Maybe not the truth, either. _

_Truth was dangerous. Truth was for those he trusted, and Tom barely trusted his own shadow, let alone anyone else. _

"_Is this political?" _

"_No." _

"_Then why are you here?" _

"_Why are you here?" he countered. _

_They both knew the answer, though neither had answered at all._

* * *

"I've decided that you will be my heir," Voldemort declared imperiously. He commanded and his Death Eaters obeyed. He was the sole authority, and his word was _always_ law—he had no need to ask.

"Of course m'lord," Draco bowed. _What the fuck?! _His insides quivered like jelly, but he kept his face emotionless.

"Do not bow and scrape," Voldemort snapped. "You will be _better_ than everyone else. Heirs to _Slytherin_ to do not bow."

He said it arrogantly, which Draco took to understand that Voldemort meant to empower Draco so far as it benefited _him_, no more. Draco wasn't supposed to bow anymore, but he should never forget who was superior to him.

It was a dangerous line to toe.

"Do you understand what will happen?" Voldemort asked in the tone he used sometimes that reminded him of Professor McGonagall during a lecture.

"No, m'lord."

Draco learned the first time he had a conversation with the Dark Lord that quick, succinct answers were best. Beating around the bush could go _very wrong_; Draco was still learning the little tricks, which seemed to be a perpetual game in progress.

"I am immortal," he announced as though he didn't bring it up almost every single time Draco saw him. It took everything inside of Draco not to roll his eyes, or let his features twist in amusement—Voldemort really was a narcissist, but one got used to it in time. "But I cannot conceive. I have tried with your aunt"–_oh Merlin, that was an image he could've lived without_—"and with various other women, until I discovered that it was my immortality, which makes me so _great_, that does not allow me to procreate."

"I am…sorry, m'lord," Draco answered hesitantly, unsure if he was supposed to be sorry for him or not. He braced himself for a _crucio_ just in case he wasn't.

Thankfully, though the Dark Lord looked annoyed, he didn't attack.

"It is unfortunate," Voldemort waived his long, pale hand dismissively. "But it is to your benefit. _You_ will be my heir, and I will breathe my magic into you."

"How?" Draco asked dumbfounded like whiplash. He added a quick "m'lord" as an afterthought.

"Have you ever heard of _Domun autem Luna_—the gift of the moon?"

Draco shook his head, entranced.

Voldemort's voice was hypnotic. It promised knowledge of the darkest kind, of the most dangerous and worthwhile kind. It promised and always, _always_, delivered. It was the everlasting danger of _him_.

"It's a very old—very _ancient_ ritual that had risen during the Great Dragon Pox Plague," Voldemort continued. He weaved and created a story as if the very essence of a story were made of magic itself. "During that time many magical families were dying out—couldn't survive the Pox Plague. No one's sure who created the ritual, but by 1500 BC it'd gotten around that there was a way, a very _dark_ way, to extend your magic so that the _magical _line would carry on, beyond the last descendants' death."

"Why haven't I heard of this?" Draco asked without thought. "Surely a ritual this _useful _would be well known." He added another "m'lord" after a raised eyebrow, and a repentant look on his part.

"The ritual and spell itself were used rarely after the plague was no longer an issue," Voldemort replied silkily. "But from then on, there was a push to produce male heirs, and it fell out of wide use. It was banned in 1770 AC as _supremely_ Dark Magic—anyone found performing it today would face a lifetime in Azkaban or The Kiss."

Silence followed the Dark Lord's revelation, and an uneasiness spread through Draco's being. He didn't want to go to Azkaban. He didn't want to, but there was something darkly _thrilling_ about being the _heir_ to _Lord Voldemort_—the darkest wizard of all time.

"You will be reborn, your magic a reflection of me, of the _illustrious_ and _noble_ Slytherin Line." Voldemort overpowered the silence like he overpowered everything.

Pride and fear clashed inside of Draco's chest as his ego fluttered at the knowledge that out of all his followers, _he_ would be chosen as the next heir to Slytherin.

"Like a blood adoption?"

"No—your parents' blood still runs through your veins. You are a Malfoy. It is why you've been chosen. But your magic—your _magic will be elevated_—_purer than anyone else's_."

"I see, m'lord," Draco said slowly, eyes downcast.

"No, you don't," Voldemort smiled wickedly. "But you _will_."

* * *

Every kiss was a promise. Sometimes they promised everlasting joy and happiness. Sometimes kisses could promise the feel and smell of the nectar of heaven. But other times, those rare and dangerously addictive times, kisses could promise ruin and pain.

_Tom's lips touched hers. _

_The light snow fell like magic and hope around them, showering the power of the Earth upon them. There was nothing they could say or do except let themselves be swept by the time and the air and their magnificent feelings that wanted to erupt from inside of them… _

"_Why did you do that?" Minerva whispered shakily. Her voice was too heavy with the possibility of paradise. Her lips were tingling with warmth and fire—_youth_. _

"_I didn't know how to stop," Tom uttered harshly, and his harshness was bright, beautiful, contrary to all the hate and despondency that he'd let consume him for so long. _

_He was a man tortured by a love he didn't understand. _

_She should've run, she should've let the world crash around them before taking him in her arms, letting him swallow her in their shared embrace. But she was too young, too naïve, too hopeful that things would be better than they were in a world where people died and killed, and she was lost—so lost, and so hopeful of a future that would never be. _

_Her lips were fire upon his. _

_They were the break that Tom Riddle never knew could be reality._

* * *

The equivalent of a good man in any given war was a pebble in the ocean; the Order would like to believe that they had all the pebbles in the ocean; Voldemort hoped that his ranks had none; both were wrong, and they'd rue the day that they didn't understand the nature of humanity and the complexity of love.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked him sharply as soon as Draco stepped through their bedroom door. He was later than usual, and surprisingly not covered in blood or sweat. It was a pleasant surprise if not for the stricken look upon his face.

_You will be reborn._

"Nothing." His voice was strained, his eyes slightly glazed and wild simultaneously. The thrill he'd felt was gone. The greed for power couldn't sustain him, and all he had were the Dark Lord's words.

_Your magic a reflection of me_.

It was terrifying.

"_What's wrong_?" she pushed as she rushed to him; there was something in her voice that was too desperate—too soft, that was so unlike them, that Draco froze.

_Your magic will be elevated—purer than anyone else's._

He froze because if he didn't then he knew he'd shatter. He'd shatter and there'd be nothing left of his sense of masculinity—the bit he'd been able to hold onto on his knees, whilst he bowed to a Dark Lord. But he didn't need to bow anymore. Not anymore.

_You will be my heir._

"_Draco_," and it was like everything crashed around him.

_I will breathe my magic into you._

His shoulder's shook, and his stomach tumbled.

_I love you_.

_I'm yours._

_I want you to be great. _

_Forget what you know. _

But how could he forget that he wasn't worthy? How could he forget that he wasn't born to be a dragon, or a king, or an _heir_? How could he forget that he didn't want to be a prophecy child? He didn't _want_ any of it!

"Draco, please," Hermione said fearfully, because she was terrified.

She didn't know why, she didn't need to know why. This was her husband; he was kind of everything, and _fuck it_, but she was okay with that. She'd be okay with that if only he'd say that everything was fine. If only he'd say _something_.

_Draco, please_.

_I love you. _

_I'm yours. _

It was all too much, too soon, too _heavy _on his shoulders—their love, and the Dark Lord's promise.

And like that, the dam broke—hot tears created lines on his face. His knees buckled, and the ground rose up and met him without mercy. The ground tried to swallow him whole. He was beyond mercy, he was beyond faith, he was beyond _hope_—because he was the Dark Lord's _heir_, and nothing was ever going to be better again.

Hermione didn't say a word. They were past speaking on a night like tonight. They were through with pretending. His tears proved that.

She sank to the ground with him, jaw clenched, and wrapped her arms around him. She cocooned him against the world, because she was Hermione Malfoy, and that's what Malfoy women did—protect their own.

_Malfoy women are strong when Malfoy men can't be. _

She let his tears wash over her in silence. She didn't need to give him platitudes, lies that everything would be okay if only he told her what'd happened. Lies wouldn't fix whatever was wrong, and pretending were for people like Harry who were perpetually lied to, who needed to be safe guarded from the truth.

"_I'm a monster_" he said savagely as he pushed her away. This was more than just admitting that he wasn't the good guy, or that he'd never be the good guy. This was the knowledge that he would be the heir to Voldemort, and that the Dark Lord must have seen something in him that thought that Draco was truly dark—above rapists like McNair, and child abusers like Greyback.

Draco knew that he must be the kind of man that Voldemort would be proud of, and it was so sickening, so horrifying that Draco yelled. He screamed like he was being _crucio'd_.

He screamed until he was hoarse, and the echoes of his screams could be stripped and peeled off the walls of Hogwarts.

He screamed until he was gravel on the street, and couldn't scream anymore.

And then Hermione kissed him.

She kissed him sweetly, because _fuck it_, she loved him and she didn't need to pretend.

His screams had shattered her, and brought her up anew, remade her into a woman that was worthy of being called Malfoy, and because of that there was nothing left. There was nothing left but to kiss him and tell him the only truth that she had to give.

"Then I'll be a monster with you."

Just like that he knew that he had tainted the one good thing that he'd had in his world.

He was now irredeemable.

* * *

_His arms had entrapped her, moved her, stopped her from understanding that this was all there was—all there would ever be. _

_Tom wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled and her heart beat like a scared songbird. He wanted to crush her in his arms until she loved him. _

_His kisses bruised so good and so right that Minerva forgot everything else except him. _

_Always him. _

_She saw the hungry possession in his eyes, the manic gleam that shined like tiny stars in the distance. His hands rove over her body like dancing spiders. His nostrils flared as he breathed her in as deep as he could. _

"_Mine," he snarled as he plunged into her with might and calculation. But inside, beneath the veneer of gentleman and thoughtful lover, he was beast. He was closed eyes and clenched jaw. He was sweat and complete control. He was confused eyes and complete abandon. "Mine," he repeated softly as his kisses made him forget about the fire that always burned so bright in his veins. _

"_Yours," Minerva clutched him closer, and rose her hips higher to meet his. "All yours." _

_It was too much. Her words were the only thing that mattered and now they were reckless hope, because please don't let this end. _

_Never, never. _

_Don't stop—_

_I'll never stop. _

_Please—_

_Yes, yes, witch! Reach for it—_

_I can't, I can't—_

_Reach for it, I'll give it to you—_

_Her cries were muted like she fish gasping for breath—and maybe she was dying. Maybe she'd been dying since the moment they'd met. But as her body spasmed, her heart soared, and Tom moved slowly within her, searching for—oh yes, yes, yes, fuuu—_that_, she wouldn't have it any other way. _

_Tom watched her as she reached her peak, and he never thought she looked more beautiful. His own chest settled with pride, because he was narcissistic and he enjoyed proving to himself and others how great of a lover he was. _

_He didn't cause her pleasure because he cared. He drove her to euphoria for him. For his own glory. _

_It was true, but there was a piece of him that did care. That was true too. _

_Tom kissed her lips gently, a simple dance of back and forth. In this dance, they sighed and let themselves be taken by a music made by their hands and hearts. _

_If only he had one. _

_If only she'd accept he didn't. _

_If only they had known they were both right, and wrong. Because Tom Riddle was a man made up of contradictions. He didn't just live in the grey, he was the grey, and fuck it, but he liked it that way. _

_He always would. _

* * *

Sometimes breathing could be like trying to run a marathon for Draco. Everything felt heavy and slow, and like such a fucking _struggle_. But on his back, arm serving as a pillow for Hermione's head, completely sated like only she could make him, breathing was easy. It was easy like hope and faith. It was easy like love, and _fuck_ if he didn't wish breathing could always be as easy.

There was a trail of sweat creating a journey in the arc of her back. The light was dim, and cast shadows on their bodies. The beads of sweat glistened like little diamonds twinkling in the sunlight.

He turned on his side towards her, and let his fingers follow the trail laid out before him.

She sighed contentedly, and Draco smiled at her tenderly. _His wife._

"This is nice, isn't it?" she whispered. Her cheek was on his forearm. Her chocolate eyes attacked him, and he loved it. Too much. But never enough, because even now he wondered when the Dark Lord would call him.

Even now, though he resented being a _slave_, he relished the power that he gained under the Dark Lord's watchful eyes.

"Yeah," Draco blinked sultrily. "_Yes_, it is nice."

"But?"

"But what?" Draco started to knead his long, elegant fingers into her skin—his fingers dug and rolled over the arc of her back, down to the plump skin of her backside.

"You have a 'but,' clearly," Hermione raised her eyebrow because this was _Draco Malfoy_. He didn't _do_ 'peaceful' well.

"Yes, I do," he smiled slowly. It was like that first warm breeze in the space between winter and spring. Her belly felt warm, and her hands itched to take him in her hands. "I have a wonderful _butt_, thank you very much."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up and escaped.

"You have a _positively lovely butt_, too," he continued.

"Oh honestly," she scoffed.

"Honestly," he leaned closer and started to kiss her cheek and neck. "The way you move sometimes, _hot fuck, Granger_, that arse might be a magician all by itself."

"Draco Malfoy!" Hermione blushed. But Draco pulled one of her ass cheeks roughly.

"C'mon, Granger," he pulled and let it loose again and again. "Admit it—you know this arse is its own miracle."

She started to chuckle, and Draco let himself enjoy the sound of her husky voice. He wanted to ease smoothly into the topic, but frankly, he had no clue how he could, so he preferred to simply jump in.

_Fuck it. _

"Can I, hm-hm?" Draco smiled shyly, his hand rubbing small, languid circles on Hermione's tired back.

"_What?_"

"Can I—_you know_?" He poked her backside once, and gave her _that look_.

"What in the—NO! No you most certainly cannot!" Hermione recoiled, appalled.

"C'mon, Granger," Draco smirked devilishly. "Don't be a prude."

"I think we can both agree that I'm no prude," she pursed her lips, annoyed, but not moved.

"Just try it," he bit his lips seductively.

"_Never_ going to happen, Malfoy," Hermione's eyebrows were on a different continent, they were so high.

"Why? I've cried on your shoulder."

"Is that some kind of sexual marker for you? Once you've cried on my shoulder you can ask me to do obscene things?!"

"Do I have to answer that?" he smirked, mostly because he loved to see her riled up.

There was so much fire inside of him all of the time, burning him from the inside out, that he enjoyed the reminder that she wasn't just his wife. She was his equal. She had just as much fire inside of her too.

Didn't matter. Hermione jumped out of bed like the devil was on her heels, and threw on the first set of clothes she could find.

Draco laughed uproariously as he watched her become decent.

She glared at him balefully, but she could hear her mother in the back of her head.

_Hermione had been thirteen, tossing and turning in her bed during the summer. She'd enjoyed being home, but she missed her friends, and her dreams revolved around them. Harry. Ron. _Them_. _

_She hadn't wanted to sleep and dream about people who were out of her reach, and so she'd tossed and turned some more. Raucous laughter drifted upstairs, which hadn't helped. Furthermore, it had been passed midnight, and she couldn't imagine who would be over at such an hour. _

_Finally, Hermione's curiosity got the better of her; she had slowly let her feet slap against the wooden floor as she slid out of the bed, and tip-toed out of the bedroom. The door had creaked a bit, but it hadn't been so noticeable with all the happiness downstairs. _

_The voices had become clearer as Hermione reached the end of the staircase, and she peaked from behind the corner. _

_There, her mother, the esteemed Dr. Granger, who had always been prim and proper in Hermione's eyes, lounged against the sofa, legs curled up, wine glass half full in her hand, surrounded by friends with their own glasses. The bottle of pinot noir sat on the coffee table, nearly empty. _

The image was clear in Hermione's head as though she were witnessing it that very moment.

"_Gretchen," Dr. Granger slurred. She had been drunk, and Hermione felt as though someone had smacked her into an alternate reality. "You really just need to give that man a good ol' fashion _fuck_!" _

_All the drunken ladies laughed, and this "Gretchen," with her smeared lipstick and flushed cheeks responded with her whole body, and the red wine in her glass sloshed around dangerously. _

"_Don't give me that, Ellen! I fuck him! I fuck him _proud and proper_, but the _things_ he's asking of me. Lordy, I'd be afraid to confess to my priest!" _

_There had been more laughter, and Hermione had been frozen. She'd _felt_ frozen inside, which hadn't helped. She'd been a bit hurt, too. It had never been more apparent to her that her parents had lives outside of her. _

"_Well, maybe you can compromise," a blonde with ridiculously long nails had said as she reached for another bottle that was quickly emptying by her side. _

"_Compromise?" her mother scoffed. "You know as well as I do, darling, that most definitely is not the way to keep a man. Men may want a lady in the streets. But they want a freak in the bed." _

_Everyone had laughed. _

_Hermione's limbs reacted, and she'd launched herself back upstairs. _

But she never forgot, and here was the proof that mothers really did know best.

_Men may want a lady in the streets. But they want a freak in the bed. _

"So, is that a 'no'?" he leered, but there was such mischief in his eyes that Hermione almost couldn't blame him. Almost.

_Men may want a lady in the streets. But they want a freak in the bed. _

She slammed the door on her way out, and his laughter followed her all the way down the stairs and out of the Slytherin common room, nose in the air, shoulders straight.

Whereas she'd looked like a woman who had been ravaged by the hungriest of lovers a moment ago, now, with a quick wave of her wand, she looked like the prissy and appropriate lady she'd always thought her mother to be.

She looked like a Malfoy.

_Men may want a lady in the streets. But they want a freak in the bed_, indeed.

Indeed.

* * *

"_What are you searching for?" Minerva asked quietly, white sheet covering her breasts. She watched him dress slowly, in that methodical way of his. It always seemed like everything he did was checking just for the sake of checking it off of his list. _

_Pants—check. _

_Shirt—check. _

_Tie—check. _

_She wondered if she was a check on his list, too. _

"_What do you mean? Are you not enough for me?" he smiled that quirky, insincere smile of his as he fixed his tie. But she wouldn't be swayed. _

"_You stopped working at Borgin and Burkes, you refused all those ministry jobs back when we first met—do not bother to lie. I _worked_ there. I know. I asked."_

"_I will be great one day, my dear," Tom walked over and towered over her for a moment. "Better than those jobs."_

_He liked the feeling of being above her, in all senses. He always felt out of control with her, and dominating her, even in the simplest of ways, helped him feel as though he were regaining some of that control._

"_I know," she smiled, and there was so much honesty in her eyes that Tom could've almost exploded from the sheer feeling of knowing she _believed_ in him. He didn't like how consuming it was. "But that doesn't mean you can't try and be great _now_." _

_The very next day he applied for the position of DADA in Hogwarts. _Of course_, Dumbledore refused in his own manner, which Tom knew he would. Nonetheless, Tom was furious. _

_He was furious that Minerva had that much power over him. _

* * *

There was never a moment when Ron's eyes didn't search for Hermione. Ever since he was eleven years old, his eyes would search the crowd for her bushy hair, his ears would perk up searching for her bossy voice.

He'd never questioned the instinct, the compelling _need_ to search for her, to always find her.

But as the years passed he became acutely aware of the need. He became aware of his own failings and feelings, which always surged from his chest like little firecrackers when she smiled at him or praised him.

It was this same awareness that caused him to resent her and despise himself. Because the action was too engrained, too buried within himself…now that she belonged to another, it hurt.

It hurt _so fucking bad_ when he naturally searched for her voice like he'd always done, and found her talking to Malfoy in passing.

It hurt _too fucking much_ when he instinctively searched for her chocolate eyes, and found her gaze settled on Malfoy. But she was a Malfoy now, and every time he looked for her and found her, he was reminded.

He was reminded that he wasn't good enough, pure enough; sometimes he hated her for making him care _so damned much_, only to walk away.

Sometimes he hated himself for caring too much to not be able to let go, but not enough to love her like she had wanted.

"_Hey_," _Harry had sat down across from him in the common room. The emptiness swept through them and around them; they both knew what was missing, what was suffocating him slowly. _

That was how Ron ended up here, in front of the Slytherin House door, hands in trouser pockets, cloak lost somewhere in Gryffindor common room, eyes unblinking, waiting for the door to open and Hermione's figure to sweep past.

It didn't matter if he had to wait all night—he just needed _this_ to be over. He needed to crush the incessant instinct to always find her, to need her around. He needed it gone or else he'd go crazy.

As though Merlin had heard his prayers, the door opened, and Hermione walked through, lips turned down, her eyes blazing in that way that always reminded Ron of how _alive_ she truly was.

She had barely taken a step past the threshold when she saw him and stopped abruptly, the door closing behind her with bang. Her lips transformed into a radiant smile, as though she hadn't seen him in weeks.

Maybe she hadn't. Perhaps being right beside her sometimes had nothing to do with actually seeing him.

She went to speak, but Ron didn't want pleasantries. He didn't want "hey" or "how are you." He wanted a truth that would settle the uncomfortable feeling in his gut every time he looked to his right and found she wasn't there.

"Why him and not me?" Ron asked finally, _finally_. He'd needed the words to be said, to reach out of him and into the universe.

Hermione's smile slipped off her face like raindrops on a windowpane.

"You don't love me, Ron," Hermione sidestepped, unsure as to what brought this on, but completely aware that this had been coming for a long time. But Ron wasn't letting this go. Not today, not when he was sick and tired of waiting for her.

"That's not what I asked you."

"You _never_ loved me," she stressed, but it didn't matter.

"Did he?" Ron felt like he was being gutted. He despaired deep in his soul for something he'd always thought would be his, and wasn't. "Did he love you? Did he lie—was that the difference? I cared too much to lie."

"Okay, Ron," Hermione lashed out at him, furious that after all the blood split, she still didn't regret not walking away—she wanted to. She was furious that Ron always tempted her with his _goodness_. "Do you really want the truth? Can you even handle it? Because there isn't some magical cure at the end that'll make my decision okay."

"Stop spinning us in circles, Hermione," Ron gritted his teeth and clenched his fits so hard they were white at the knuckles. "Put us both out of this miserable owl's cage for Merlin's sake."

"I wanted him," she glared, hurt that he was forcing the issue, dismayed that she didn't have a better answer, and knowing that he was justified. "I wanted him," she repeated.

"Don't lie to me!" Ron exploded, knowing in his gut there was more.

Because he knew _her_, and Hermione wasn't so shallow to decide her whole world based on desire. He would, Harry would, but not her. She'd always been too logical for that.

"I'm not."

"Just _stop lying_!" he yelled and Hermione couldn't stop the vitriol from spilling forth from her mouth.

"The truth? The truth is that I may not have known what I wanted, but _he_ knew. He knew you were too good to ever protect me."

"There isn't anything I wouldn't do to protect you as my best friend, let alone my wife," Ron snarled, affronted at the assault on his manhood.

"Would you have killed for me?"

"Yes!"

"Now who's the one lying?" Hermione sneered and she felt like a Malfoy.

"I would have, damn it!" Ron spread his arms out as if waiting for a miracle. His words bounced off the walls, and they were trapped between the echoes of his fury and pain. He pointed his index finger at her accusingly. "_You know_ that Harry and I would have—_still_."

"Not innocents," she whispered, tired of lying and hiding, but ashamed of the truth.

"What?"

"If you were given a choice between me and an innocent person, you wouldn't be able to choose," she looked at him sadly.

"So, because I'm not a cold-blooded murderer, I wasn't good enough for you?"

"No," Hermione latched onto his arm that bulged with barely restrained violence. "Don't you see—you're _so good_, Ron. You're such a good person that I knew you wouldn't be able to, and I'm proud to know someone so good…But that' not what I _need_. I need someone who I know would _always_ choose me, even when it isn't the right choice, even if it costs them their soul."

"I could've become that for you," Ron lifted his hand and touched her cheek gently.

"Maybe," Hermione conceded, knowing now, after witnessing her own transformation, that there were few limits to what a person could become for someone they cared for deeply. "But I didn't want to be the reason you changed. I didn't want to ruin you."

"Damn you, 'Mione," Ron sighed harshly. "Damn you because things didn't have to be this way. You could've spoken to me about this _before_ you chose Malfoy, and I would have understood."

"But you understand now, right?" Hermione pleaded silently with her eyes. She didn't want to lose him. "You don't hate me, do you?"

"No, I don't hate you," he pulled her to him, and wrapped his strong arms around her, shielding her from the world and his own sorrow. His hug was warm and precious. "I could never hate you, and I _do_ understand. But now you'll always be the one that got away, and you did that to us. You did that to _me_."

"I'm sorry," she hugged him tighter, wishing he could feel her remorse.

"I know," he nodded as he let her go gently. He nodded again as though he were trying to convince them both. "I know you are."

He smiled slightly at her, but the truth was that he didn't believe her, not really. Frankly, she didn't quite believe herself, either—because if she'd felt truly sorry, she wouldn't have done it in the first place. No, she was sorry that it turned out the way it did, but that wasn't the same.

But Ron wasn't Draco, and this was a truth neither had to face.

* * *

"_It's been years, Tom," Minerva balled her fists up in anger. "Years—of wondering whether or not you ever plan to settle down. Years of questioning whether or not staying as we are is _my choice_ or _yours_. We are together! Together, Tom. A unit. And at first I _loved _you _so _much for respecting my goals and career dreams—for giving me the time and space to be who I'm meant to become on my own. But now…I'm ready. I'm ready, and waiting, and…we_ _deserve more than that. We deserve more than _this_."_

_He kissed her, and that was okay too, except it really wasn't. _

_She sort of hated him for it._

"_Take me as I am, my dear," he whispered against her lips. "Or do not take me at all. I have my own dreams and goals to chase after. This is all I have to offer." _

_She paused. Their lips pressed together, but neither moving. _

_Her heart contracted painfully in the wait. _

_She kissed him back, misguidedly thinking that all they needed was a little more time._

* * *

The November sunset shimmered in the sky the colors of sorrow and hope as Draco and Voldemort stood on top of a hill near the highlands. They stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder, watching the sunset as though they were father and son.

It was strange for Draco to be in the Dark Lord's presence without the need to bow and offer words of veneration. There was a feeling of danger that settled on Draco's bones that he couldn't shake.

"Do you know why we are here?" Voldemort hissed smoothly. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it commanded and towered above the cries of the wind.

"No, my lord," Draco barely caught the automatic movement of his head to bow when talking to Voldemort.

"We are here so that you may learn the glory of the Earth."

Draco wanted to ask _what in the hell_ he was talking about, but knew that silence was his friend. Voldemort loved the dramatics, and he loved making most conversations a type of mystery. Because of this, Draco knew the Dark Lord would explain, in his own time. He just had to be patient. He just had to keep it all together.

"When was the last time you attended a winter solstice?"

Draco was sure Voldemort already knew, since his parents and Snape still brought it up. Every year since, he'd tried to make it, but he always got distracted, or disaster hit, and he never made it.

"The last time I went to the winter ritual, I was twelve. Suppose I'm overdue for some grace from the moon."

"Do not be glib," Voldemort turned towards him and glared fiercely. Draco opened his mouth to apologize, but Voldemort waved his apology away. "The moon may smile upon you, yet, young dragon. She may smile on you, yet."

Draco nodded his head swiftly, but he had _no clue_ what Voldemort was talking about. He assumed this meant that he'd be forced to attend the upcoming winter ritual, but he'd been planning to do that anyway.

But, then again, he _always_ planned to go.

There was a sudden pop—the sound of a truly skilled apparater appearing. Draco went to turn around, but Voldemort's hands on his shoulder stopped him. There was a cruel lift on his lips that Draco didn't understand, but then again—he never understood much when it came to the Dark Lord.

"Take a breath, Dragon," Voldemort said mellifluously, which was _so damned sinister and jarring_. "Breathe, and think about what you want most in the world. What do you want, and how far are you willing to go to get it?"

_What do you want? _

_I love you. _

_I'm yours. _

_I want you to be great._

_You will be my heir._

_Power. _

_Pain. _

_Blood. _

_I love you. _

He wanted _everything_.

* * *

"_I suppose I should begin seeing other people," Minerva announced haughtily to Tom as she stormed into his office in his home. _

_She didn't own it, but it sure seemed like it. Frankly, she had no way of knowing that he would be in without company, but there he stood, bathed in blood. _

"_If you are talking about Bellatrix Black," Tom responded nonchalantly as though nothing was amiss. "Let it go, my dear. Her family are very influential and I want them for my cause." _

_Minerva barely heard a word he said, however. She could barely breathe. _

"_What happened?" she ran to him, desperately checking him for injuries. Where was he bleeding from? Where was he bleeding from? But she couldn't find any cuts. "Merlin! Are you alright, Tom? What happened?" _

"_Stop fussing," Tom snapped and pointedly put some distance between them. "I am perfectly fine." _

"_You're covered in blood!" _

"_Yes," he smiled wickedly. "Still love me?" _

I want them for my cause_, he'd said, and Minerva _finally_ heard him. _

"_What cause?" she could barely ask. _

"_I told you I was going to be _great_," he scourgified the blood that was still wet on his skin. He looked into her eyes and let her see him as he saw himself. "Woe be to the person who ever doubted it."_

_Minerva turned away from him, and disappeared for a week, watching the Daily Prophet for any sign of a brutal murder, or a massacre. _

_There were only notes about disappearances, and so Minerva convinced herself that everything was normal. _

* * *

Listening to Professor Flitwick lecture was typically an interesting affair, if not exactly rousing. But Draco couldn't focus, and Hermione kept sending worried glances his way, which simply added to his apprehension.

She watched him like Voldemort did at times—as though they knew all they needed to just by his posture, or the way he smiled.

There was a strangeness to it, a certain level of intimacy that made him want to squirm. But he didn't. _Malfoy's don't squirm_.

That was rule thirty-four in the one-hundred essential rules of how to be a Malfoy. Seriously. It was.

Number thirty-four—_Malfoy's don't squirm_—squished between thirty-three (_Malfoy's don't assume anything) _and thirty-five (_Malfoy's don't linger)_. Frankly, he was _almost_ looking forward to having a child of his own just so he could see their face at rule number one: _Malfoy's _try_ not to fuck—their wives, their friends, or themselves_. _But if you have to, fuck over your friend first (you can always make more), then your wife (she'll have to die one day and until then can be sent to live away from you), and finally, if all else fails and you can't help it, yourself (you'll survive)._

The rules ranged from outrageous, to basic common sense (Rule one-hundred: _Don't die at any cost_). There was something so heartwarming and _normal_ about those Malfoy rules that instead of listening to Fltiwick, Draco spent the entire class time reciting the Malfoy rules in his head.

It was _just_ enough to hold it together.

_What do you want, and what are you willing to do to get it? _

Because _fuck_, he was barely holding it together, and he knew it.

_There was a sudden pop—the sound of a truly skilled apparater appearing_

His hands shook, and his breathing kept spiking erratically when flashes of sunburn cheeks, and crooked teeth sped through his mind.

_Take a breath, Dragon._

The class was over, but Draco didn't move. He didn't want to move. If he simply stayed perfectly still then nothing was real.

"Draco?" Hermione approached him slowly.

But Hermione always made everything _too real_.

_Think about what you want most in the world. _

His body shifted into action, and he fled the classroom, but Hermione was right behind him. He'd barely left the room when Hermione caught him and yanked him to her, into the crook of a small alcove.

_Take a breath, Dragon. _

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked, but Draco kept his silence. It was all he had at the moment. It was all he could truly bear. "I thought we were over this, Malfoy. _Talk to me_."

_Is this your choice? _

_Do not hesitate, Draco. Hesitation is death. _

_Please, think about this. _

_Blood. _

_Screams. _

_Pain. _

"I killed a man, today," he whispered as they settled into their honesty like priest and confessor.

There was so much space separating them, yet they'd never felt closer. Maybe this was what normal relationships were like. No battles. No fights filled with affection and hate, lust and resentment. Perhaps this was what people like Luna and Harry felt when they bared their souls.

But Hermione and Draco weren't them, and they never would be.

"Pretty sure you kill at least a few every week, if not more," she shrugged. It was a mask, but she needed it, because _Malfoy women are strong when Malfoy men can't be. _Now wasn't the time for her moral pulpit."What's so special about this one?"

"He helped me," Draco turned away from her and laid his hands against the wall. He leaned and pushed against it, his arms completely outstretched, his body at an angle. It was as though he was trying to force his magic into his hands. Hermione couldn't see his face, but the way his back rippled, his muscles taut, told her everything she couldn't see. "He sat on a mountain and _trained_ me. _Fuck_, Granger, can you even picture this."

He pushed away from the wall and turned abruptly towards her. He ran his hands anxiously through his hair, and she realized how frazzled he must be. She tried to reach for him, but he backed away.

"Don't you _see_, Granger? He spent hours training me, trying to teach me how to _hold _my magic and not just let it live inside of me. _Hours_ talking about you, my family, my childhood—_everything_ that could've remotely affected my magic and the way I interact with it."

"Why?"

"Because to commune with the moon, _really_, to be _bathed_ in its grace after I've forsaken it for so many years, I have to be completely open to my magic. I have to be completely unafraid of all the facets of my magic. But that's decidedly _unnatural_—everyone fears their magic at least a bit. So he—a man I _killed_ afterwards—trained me to be unafraid."

Hermione was horrified at his actions, but she also burned with jealousy; she wanted to learn all of that too. But this wasn't about her. It was never about her. It was always about Harry, Draco, or even _Ron_.

Her entire life was a reaction to the men around her, and she burned with bitterness too, but she stomped it down and away as if she was stomping on the dreams of children who were learning that Santa Claus wasn't real for the first time.

She was a woman, and there were some truths of her lot that she didn't want to accept.

But Draco's heavy sigh reminded her that this wasn't about her, and right now was not the time to rage about the injustices done to her sex.

"What happened, Draco?" she tried to soothe and comfort him. She held out her hand, and he took it. No heated looks, or electrifying warmth.

This was love. This was acceptance. This was _home_.

"Voldemort ordered me to kill him, afterwards. When it was all said and done, I felt closer to that guy than anyone I'd ever known in my life. He knew my dreams and fears. He knew my hopes and emotions. He knew _everything_ there is to know about me, Granger, and I killed him."

"Why?"

"To prove that I could kill someone that I felt connected to. To prove that there was _no limit_ to what I would do for what I want."

Draco trembled, and Hermione tightened her hold on his hand.

_Malfoy women are strong when Malfoy men can't be._

"Then you're the man I married," she whispered fiercely. "And you have nothing to be ashamed of."

It was a lie, but it didn't feel like one—not to him and not to her, not right at that moment.

That was all that mattered.

_They_ were all that mattered.

* * *

"_I was visiting an aunt when the village was attacked, and some stranger—_Terrorist_—grabbed me and apparated me here! That is _not_ okay!" Minerva raged at Tom._

"_They did the right thing," he nodded approvingly as he read through some plans for his Death Eaters. He didn't bother hiding them from Minerva because they were enchanted for only his eyes, through blood magic. _

"_What is wrong with you?" Minerva yelled, tears pooling in her eyes. "How could you condone this?"_

"_What's wrong with _you_?" Tom bit back and finally took all of her in. "I told you that I was going to change the world—I told you that I was going to be great. But you convinced yourself that I was going to do it in a way that you approved of." _

"_I thought you were a better man than this," she snarled. _

"_I'm not," he touched her hand softly. "I never was." _

* * *

Draco walked into his room, only to find Harry _fucking saint_ Potter sitting in _his_ armchair, staring into the fireplace as though it held the answers to the mysteries of the galaxies.

Annoyed didn't even begin to cover Draco's emotions.

"Potter," he said slowly, as though he were talking to a small child. Harry turned abruptly to look at him, surprise etched into his features. "Unless I've fallen into an alternate universe, please, _please,_ _stay the hell out of my space_."

"Don't be a dick," Harry scowled. He thought that something might have changed between them, but he knew that he'd been fooling himself. They had an understanding of each other, of their love for Hermione—nothing else. "I'm waiting for Hermione. A First Year downstairs let me in and pointed me this way to wait for her."

"Of _course_," Draco sneered. "Make yourself at home then."

"Don't mind if I do," Harry stretched his lips into a painful grimace that was still trying to become a smile. He scanned Draco and noticed his slightly haggard appearance. "You look in fine form, don't you?"

"Unlike you, these walls don't protect me from the reality of the war, Potter."

His words seeped all of the warmth out of the room.

"What's going on out there?"

"Doesn't your precious Order keep you apprised?" Draco mocked, but the sincere desperation for knowledge told him everything that he needed to know. "What do you actually know?"

"I know the war's started in earnest in some ways," Harry admitted, not ashamed of showcasing his weakness if it would gain him more information that he had now. "I know that Voldemort's gaining power, and that the odds are stacked against us. Against everyone who _doesn't _have the Dark Mark."

"So, basically, you know nothing," Draco boiled it down to the truth because he didn't have the strength or the patience to be any level of polite to the man he was supposed to try to live up to in his wife's eyes—whether she said it or not. He sighed and walked to the bar and poured them both a drink of bourbon. _Fuck it_. "They're trying to pass legislation that'll make owning more than one property illegal without certain economic standing—you know, _rich_."

"What does that have to do with the war?"

"What do you know about the way the Order works?" Draco rolled his eyes and passed Harry his glass. They both took a sip at the same time as Draco perched himself on the edge of the adjacent leather sofa. Draco continued softly, "Contrary to popular belief, Dumbledore wasn't under any illusions that he'd live forever. Bloody hell, I'm pretty sure the old coot knew that I was trying to kill him last year. Anyway, the point is that he couldn't be secret keeper to _every_ safe-house of the Order. So, everyone, including Dumbledore at the time, has a place that they are secret keeper for. Of course, even though it's a fidelus charm, so it can't be broken and the secret keeper can't be _forced_ to break the charm, that doesn't mean that those who _are_ secret keepers aren't on the books usually. _Someone_ has to own the house that no one can find or see; _someone_ has to own the land that no one can go near. And even if the owner isn't the secret keeper, it doesn't matter.

Every player in the game knows what's happening and it looks suspicious—sends red flags when the same five or six people own so much land and houses, especially if they're poor or middle class. My best guess is that the Order limits everyone to only one safe-house in addition to their own private property. But, with this law, once it's limited, it's clear who owns safe-houses; kill them and the properties are automatically put up for sale and the bond to the fidelus charm breaks. With this law most of the Order _literally_ can't own more than one property, making it easy to distinguish who owns safe-houses. Whereas before, the Order could do it incognito. Essentially, this is the _opposite. _And despite being loyal, most people aren't willing to turn their own homes into safe-houses. _No one_ in their right mind would endanger their own family in case it was discovered that their personal homes were safe-houses."

"It would force them to downsize."

"That or be seen as highly suspicious. Even the rich look suspicious if they own _fourteen _properties, which is probable cause for the Ministry to raid."

"They can't actually do that can they? Anyone with common sense knows that Voldemort is hiding out at your house, but they haven't raided it."

"It's the beauty of being from a _Most_ Ancient and Noble House," Draco shrugged as if he didn't care, which, frankly, _he didn't_. This was the way the world worked, and Lucius had taught him to accept that a long time ago. "They can't raid any house belonging to the head of a _Most_ ancient and noble house. It's the _law_, and you know how much the ministry loves to follow the law."

Draco raised that supercilious eyebrow that always mocked, and Harry gritted his teeth, mind racing a thousand miles per hour trying to find a loophole, _something_, to do the right thing.

"There has to be a way," Harry demanded.

"There is. But I don't suppose you and Longbottom would be willing to fall on your swords for the cause—scratch that. You, maybe, but Longbottom's got a legacy to think about that matters to him. He was taught to care about his legacy."

"Bloody hell," Harry responded, completely surprised. "I had no idea…"

He didn't finish, but he didn't have to. Draco understood, because at one point, he'd had no idea either. No idea that that war had layers. No idea that _nothing_ was like it seemed, and that this war was vastly complicated. But he'd had his own reasons, and he was sure his reasons weren't Harry Potter's.

"What did you think?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted. They'd crossed the largest barrier between them—Hermione. Everything else was simply background noise. They'd listen to it when they weren't tired. They'd listen tomorrow.

"What, you thought this war was about you?"

"I know it's not!—"

"Don't lie to make yourself feel better," Draco scowled and drank from his cup. If Potter wanted to talk, then he wouldn't let him hide from his own truth, either. "The Dark Lord killed your parents. Then your godfather died over your prophecy—this, all of it, felt, _feels_ personal. He _made_ it personal."

"I'm not some spoiled brat," Harry leaned his head back against the couch and sighed deeply. "_I'm not_."

"You don't have to be a spoiled brat to be naïve. You don't have to be a spoiled brat to accept that we're all superstars in our own lives."

"What do you think is going to happen?"

"We'll all do what we have to, Potter," Draco took a large swig of his drink. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down quickly. "That's the truth that everyone refuses to tell you. We all, _all of us_, from the most self-righteous to the greatest loathsome and despicable rat will just do what we have to. So, word to the wise: be careful who you trust."

Harry wanted to refute the statement, but he didn't. He couldn't. Instead, he drank some more, and let silence take over. He stared into the crackling fire, and wondered where Hermione was.

Or at least that was what he would say if she appeared and asked.

What he actually wondered would have broken her heart: if the time ever came, would he do the _right_ thing, or simply what he had to?

* * *

_Dumbledore's office always looked like a controlled mess—half teenaged boy bedroom and half genius trap. It always made everyone, regardless of age, feel as though they were talking to their father or grandfather. _

_Dumbledore was no fool, and he wanted it that way. Guilt was better than any veritaserum. _

_Minerva knew this about him, but it didn't change how she felt, sitting in front of him, and listening to the current events that featured Tom. Dumbledore chatted in a seemingly random fashion about the terrorist attacks that weren't being publicized—the ones that were ignored because they were against muggles. But they both knew his conversation wasn't random at all. _

_They both knew. _

"_You look tired and worried," Dumbledore struck when she least expected him to. He let the statement hang for a moment, as his gaze and her guilt created a music of silence that built until Minerva thought she might break. "Anything you'd like to tell me?"_

_She hoped that someone would stop Tom—catch him, kill him. _

_She didn't think she could take the heartbreak if they did. _

_This was love. _

"_No." _

* * *

Hermione stood in the hallway in front of the DADA classroom. She knew she was tempting fate by being anywhere near the Carrow's classroom alone, but she always seemed to be surrounded by people lately. Draco, Harry, even Ginny—it was as though she rarely had a moment to just breathe.

She needed that, if nothing else. She needed _at least_ a moment, to simply breathe.

So, instead of taking a walk, and risking bumping into Harry or Ron or Ginny, she came early to the DADA classroom.

"Well, if it isn't _you_," Pansy sneered as she walked towards Hermione.

Hermione on the other hand breathed heavily through her nose; her nails dug into her palms; her teeth grounded against each other in frustration. All she'd wanted was _one fucking moment_, and even that was denied to her. But she was a Malfoy now, and Malfoys and Parkinsons were close; she'd heard the lecture from Draco enough times to know she had to keep her cool.

"Pansy," Hermione nodded her head once in acknowledgement, but the disdain was clear. _Be nice, be nice. _"How's husband hunting?"

Okay, so she needed to work on her nice skills.

Pansy glared for a moment, but straightened her back and lifted her chin. Hermione hadn't been the only one commenting on that. It seemed that being seventeen and unengaged in a time when all of her peers were either engaged, married, or simply waiting to be of age to be either, was the worst thing she could be.

_Too bad no one beside blood-traitors would ever touch you apparently—still on the market, I hear?_

_Pansy, dearest, I think my cousin might offer for you, if your father is willing to take a meager amount? _

_Did you hear that Pansy still isn't engaged? If I were her I'd just die of embarrassment—oh, hello, Pansy! How are you?_

_Well, clearly good breeding isn't everything, or else you'd be engaged by now, huh? _

The pressure to find a husband was practically unbearable.

"How's being in a loveless, sham of a marriage?" Pansy didn't bother to try to play pretend. Not today, not now, not with _her_.

The pressure was too much, and the ring on Hermione's finger was too cold of a reminder.

"What do you think you know about my marriage, Parkinson?" Hermione glowered right back. "Let alone about _love_?"

Perhaps they both needed this. Maybe they both couldn't hold everything in, and this was the perfect way to let some of that anger out. Because, make no mistake, they were _angry_. They were angry at Hogwarts for changing beyond recognition, though the walls still looked the same. They were angry at Draco for letting them both down on different levels. They were angry at themselves, for trying and trying and still feeling like they were utter failures, and failing those around them.

"I know that I _loved_ Draco," Pansy stepped closer, and laid her hand on her own chest. _Don't cry, don't cry, don't bloody cry_. "I know that I would've married him if not for you and this Merlin-forsaken law. I know that Draco might tell you that you have to _deal_ with my presence because of our families' history, but the truth is that he just likes having me around because I've known him long before you even knew he existed, and I know he's got blood on his hands, but I _don't_ judge him. I'll _never_ judge him—I'll _always_ accept him just as he is. So, yeah, _Granger_, I know a bit about love, and I'd wager, a bit more about Draco and your marriage."

Hermione didn't know what to say; she knew that Draco wasn't an open book, and that he really might have told her to _deal with it_ because he simply wanted Pansy around; through Hermione was the only appropriate way he could have Pansy around now that he was married. Pansy: the girl who loved him without conditions.

"_I broke a good woman's heart," Draco sighed, and his sigh held the weight of the world. _

She remembered that night, so long ago. She realized that, just maybe, she and Pansy cared for Draco the way that Draco and Harry cared for her and the way she and Luna cared for Harry and the way Theo and Draco cared for Pansy. They were all young, and intertwined in simple and complicated ways. They were all put in impossible situations, manipulated by old men on power trips.

Suddenly, all of the fight that Hermione had been itching to let out on Pansy disappeared. They were the same, despite how different they really were.

"I didn't take him from you," Hermione looked away, confused at her own reaction. She should be railing against Pansy—the woman that Draco still might care for. But she couldn't. How could she fault Pansy for being unable to let go?

"You don't think so, but I _know _him," Pansy's eyes filled with unshed tears, but she wouldn't let them loose. She was a Pureblood. She might not be as composed as Daphne 'ice-queen' Greengrass, but she wouldn't resort to crying in public. Even if no one was around besides Hermione. Instead, Pansy refocused. "You took him away from me a long time ago, whether or not he'll ever admit it."

The silence weighed on them, as Hermione remembered remembering the day Draco had offered his hand.

_It had been the day she had punched Malfoy right after the Buckbeak incident…Her stomach had clenched, and their eyes met—and the magic in the air had been palpable for that one second where they both _felt_ but couldn't describe. The magic rising in light of their disgust at the alien feelings_.

Love was connection. The deepest kind of connection that existed.

Pansy saw the recognition in Hermione's eyes, and shook her head. "What now?"

Before Hermione could respond, the soft heels hitting stone bounced off the walls, until Luna came into view. She smiled serenely at both of them, as she approached, and then, enigmatically said,"You know, love isn't about who you are—not really. Love's about who you want to be. That's the power of love—the ability to transform you. The ability to let us transform ourselves."

Hermione and Pansy both gaped at Luna openmouthed for a moment, stunned at her perceptiveness and targeted comment. Hermione wondered if the girl really _was_ touched with sight, but let the thought go.

Even if she was, Hermione didn't want to know.

"You really are a weirdo, aren't you?" Pansy said cruelly, but there was no real bite in her words. This was Theo's soon-to-be wife. She couldn't hate the girl even if she tried.

"Probably," Luna shrugged carelessly. "But I think Theo's okay with it."

"You don't sound enthused," Pansy noted, her natural instinct to hone in on others weakness rearing its head without her consent.

Hermione wanted to tell Pansy that it was none of their business, but she'd noted the same thing as well. An image of Luna and Harry together, sitting on the floor, sharing secrets and hearts, flashed through her mind.

"He's still in love with you, I think. But he'll be good to me," Luna continued to smile whimsically, and began to play with her strange earing. "And I sort of love him already. Eventually he'll let you go enough to love me back, I reckon."

"So, what's the problem?" Hermione couldn't help herself; she wasn't surprised to find that Luna had picked up on that same signs that Hermione had—she'd seen Theo's eyes stray to Pansy's form enough times in the Slytherin common room to catch the hint.

"I didn't choose him," her eyes focused on them, and _damn it_. There was something about Luna's eyes that could shift and make everyone think that she was the only one that actually saw the world clearly. "My father decided that he was the one that I would marry, which is fine. I know this is the way it's done. I know this is the way it's _always_ been done. But, well, I would've preferred to have had the choice. Even if I still chose him, it would've been _my choice_."

Hermione sighed, as it struck her how little she still knew of the world around her, despite all she's learned. Luna was her friend, and it had never occurred to her to ask _why_ she chose Theo.

"I'm sorry, Luna," Hermione touched Luna's arm in sympathy.

Pansy didn't bother to offer her condolences. Her father promised that she could choose for herself once the petitions came in—but he was within his rights to deny her that. Essentially, she was only slightly better off than Luna.

"It's okay," Luna shrugged. "We all have our crosses to bear."

Her eyes unfocused, and she swiftly walked away, just as she had come. If it wasn't for the _clicking _and _clacking_ of her shoes on the stone floors Hermione and Pansy would've sworn that she'd been a figment of their imagination.

_We all have our crosses to bear_.

Hermione and Pansy looked at each other for a moment. They could hear a student crying from within the DADA classroom from some curse or another.

_We all have our crosses to bear._

* * *

"_They were people, Tom!" Minerva shouted at him, enraged and heartbroken. She was the epitome of a lover distraught. "They were human beings that deserved better than being the punchline to your sick games! Your sick—twisted!"_

"_I am who I am, my sweet," Tom crowded her space—typical power play. But Minerva wasn't in the mood to cower. She never was. _

"_You're a monster," she slapped him, tears overflowing from her eyes. His face turned with the force of the slap, and his gaze burned red with rage. _

"_That was a mistake, my love," Tom whispered silkily in a dangerous tone that spoke of a violence she'd yet to see from him. But she knew had existed. She'd always known. The bottomless rage had always danced around in his eyes, in the swiftness and ruthlessness of his body against hers. She'd known, and she had looked away. _

_She'd blinded herself to the truth because she loved him too much. _

"_No," She straightened her back, and let all the revulsion and hate pool in her eyes. "My mistake was ever believing that you could be a better man than you were." _

_She left on quacking limbs, hoping she'd seen the last of Tom Riddle; her traitorous heart prayed that she hadn't. _

* * *

Draco's silver eyes bore into Theo, peered through him, and saw everything that Theo didn't say. Draco saw the dismay and horror that he felt at being a _recruiter_ for Death Eaters. _Emissary._

"Why me?" Theo asked coldly, mask in place but they'd been friends long enough that Draco could see through it.

He could see _beyond_ it.

"Why not you?"

Draco shrugged. Truth was his only defense for asking such a thing of his friend, his _brother_. "The Dark Lord doesn't share his reasons, and frankly, I don't think he really has one."

_Yes. Draco is a dragon, and Blaise a Prince, but you Theo, you are special, too. You're a Protector. _

"I don't think I can do this, Draco."

Theo grit his teeth. His sapphire eyes were lost and tortured—a reflection of the horrors he'd seen since his father have never _stopped_ being a Death Eater. Not even during peace time.

"You'll have to at least pretend," Draco ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "I've been covering for you lately, but even I can only shield you from the Carrows for so long. If you don't recruit at all, they'll eventually catch on. They'll know and then the Dark Lord will know, too. _Your father_ will know."

"_Fuck_."

"Yeah."

Silence consumed them and they were too close to too much power—everything they'd always wanted and everything they'd always feared. They bore the weight of age on youthful shoulders.

"What am I going to do?"

"Do what we all do—what you have to. And if you can't live with yourself afterwards, then marry a witch with enough forgiveness inside of her to forgive you enough for the both of you."

"You're in _too deep_, Draco" Theo snapped at him. Draco didn't want to have this conversation, but he couldn't run. He'd never run. Never again.

"With who exactly?" Draco tried to play naive.

"With _everyone!_" He flung his arms wildly, exasperated and slightly lost. He wanted to help his friend, to reel him in, but they hadn't been truly close in so long that he felt he didn't know _how_. He didn't have the words that Blaise obviously did. But he tried anyway. He tried because they were best friends, and he'd never stop trying. "You think I haven't noticed you and Granger? And don't even try to run this as simply keeping the peace—I see the way you look at her. This whole damned castle sees the way you look at her. You love her."

"Spare me the witch and nifflers talk, please," Draco scoffed. It didn't matter if he knew it was sort of true. Knowing, and admitting were never the same thing.

"Heir, Draco?" Theo said with sad eyes. More saddened by the fact he heard it through the ranks rather than from Draco himself. It was left field, but also completely connected because there wasn't a part of his life that Hermione hadn't permeated, corrupted with her goodness, her _light_. There wasn't a part of his life that the Dark Lord hadn't tainted with his darkness. "Heir?"

"It's not like I could say no," he shrugged.

"You're too deep, mate. Too far, you might as well be falling off the edge."

"Being elevated as a Death Eater, and getting along with my wife are hardly things to be upset about, Theo."

"Yeah? And what about your newfound friendship with Potter?"

"I assure you, we aren't, nor have we ever been, _friends_."

"Don't be a dick—you're playing a dangerous game and you know it. Too dangerous. Being a prophecy child doesn't make you invincible."

They were at a standstill, impassive in their impasse.

They were the future of the Wizarding world, and it was bleak because they'd die for each other, if only they could get past their Slytherin nature which always wanted more—more rewards, more acknowledgement, more _future_ and _life_.

"What do you want from me?" Draco asked honestly, eyes guarded.

"I want you to promise me that I won't be forgotten in your crusade to go down in history—and don't fucking lie and say that's not what this, _all of this_, is about. I've known you too long."

Was it? Was all of this his strange and half-hearted attempt to be remembered? Draco didn't know, but he smiled slightly at his oldest friend. "You won't be forgotten—I promise."

The second the words flew from his tongue, he knew he'd lied. But he didn't take it back. He couldn't. He was soon to be the Heir of Slytherin, and lies were the least of his worries.

* * *

_The nights were long without her. There was an annoying ache that built inside of Tom's chest until he felt particularly savage. _

_That was the only good thing about missing Minerva—the savagery that assaulted him, the violence that he could do in her name because her absence in his life brought that up in him. _

_His men cackled as they crucio'd, pillaged, and raped. _

_The days were longer still, and he felt like a caged animal. He was a lion that refused to be tamed, and fuck it—perhaps a revel in the day could serve his purposes. _

_They didn't have to be Death Eaters of the night. He didn't have to live in the darkness. _

_He was _supreme_. _

_He loved her. _

_He could live in the light for her, but it would be spectacularly bloody. _

_Let Dumbledore see his power. _

_Let the fools who stand against him watch in awe of his cruelty. _

_Oh yes, he could live in the light. For her he could. _

_Because he missed her…and he was a monster. _

_This was the only way monsters can be close to precious jewels—through death and mayhem. _

* * *

The circle burned, and the runes etched into Draco's skin by Voldemort in the Dark Lord's blood felt like fiendfyre. But there was a chill that burned him in its own way.

Voldemort breathed harshly as tremors spread through his body. The shadows danced around them both as Draco's cries lifted and echoed off the walls.

"Please," Draco moaned for Voldemort to stop the blood ritual, but Voldemort didn't. _Pain wasn't real_, Voldemort reminded him with a simple look.

The moonlight shone through an opening above them, and the water glistened like hope and _life_.

"Vow!" Voldemort growled, and his red eyes sparkled like rubies.

"_De magia et fides_!" Draco cried to the moon, his soul being ripped and torn until he _felt_ reborn. The circle was complete. The fire in his veins was muted to a dull, agonizing pain.

Draco wasn't sure what else he could do except lie still, on his back, and worship the moon from his position; he'd never felt magic like that before, he'd never _done_ any kind of magic like that before.

Voldemort was on his knees, still breathing, still in complete control, though there was a light sheen of perspiration on his face.

Tears were still escaping Draco, and Voldemort, who always seemed to see everything, saw it too. There was a pit of disgust in Voldemort's chest, but he indulged Draco, if only to bring the boy back from the brink of madness.

Voldemort had known before they had started that they would need a tether, a link, to bring themselves back from insanity and the eternal calling of the moon. His tether had been Minerva, though he hated to admit it to himself; she had been the only thing he'd ever truly been attached to.

It was clear that Draco's tether was Hermione Malfoy.

"How is your marriage?" Voldemort hissed slowly.

"What?" Draco rasped out, lost in the greatness of the moon and its magic.

"Your marriage—your _wife_!"

"Hermione?" Draco's eyes unfocused, confused.

"Yes—how is she?"

"Sad," Draco answered honestly, too vulnerable to lie.

"Why is she sad?" Voldemort resented having to ask. He didn't care. He didn't care about their obvious feelings—feelings that they'd clearly had from the start, even though they'd both hid from it.

Voldemort was a master Occlumens and Legilimens because he _never_ hid from his own truth, especially the ones he disliked, therefore he never hid from the truth of others, which was always more disappointing.

"She's always sad," Draco tried to rip his eyes away from the moon. He could feel himself falling. Something was wrong, he knew. But he couldn't stop the honest words from leaving his mouth. "I'm always disappointing her. I'm _too much_ of a Death Eater. _Too good_ of a Death Eater."

"But she has not tried to run away? She has not tried to leave you?" Voldemort asked because the law never mandated she _stay_, only that they marry. It was one of the few loopholes that no one, except Voldemort, Dumbledore, and a handful of others had realized. "Has not threatened you with leaving?"

He asked because, though Hermione Malfoy was Draco's link to reality, it didn't mean he had to tap into the positive side of that link.

"She would never," he responded without hesitancy, and the pull became less. The shine of the moon looked less hazy. He could picture her, his wife, filled with rapture in his arms. He could see her, though she wasn't there.

"Why not?" Voldemort frowned, and felt his chest constrict slightly. His whole body knew he was coming to a realization he'd long been denied, simply because he hadn't understood at the time. "Why has she not at least _threatened_ if she disapproves. She knows what you do. She knows of the people you have killed. Your hands are more bloodstained than mine ever were in my youth." He laughed callously, but it was a mask among the many masks that he wore.

"Because she loves me," Draco whispered. There was more truth in that than the blessing of the moon could ever give, and the pull snapped and tore—he was back in reality. Images of Hermione washing his bloody clothes, laughing at one of his jokes, riding him with abandon, moaning her complete surrender as he plunged into her from behind, crying out her truth as she clawed at his back, sobbing at the reflection of his own dark truth, flitted through his mind like snapshots of their life so far. They compounded what he'd always known, and could never forget. He whispered, humbled, "Because she loves me."

Voldemort heard the truth of Draco's confession, and felt the souls he'd given away in horcruxes become one for a moment, and Harry was pulled in like it was Fifth Year all over again. Voldemort was whole, and he understood, _finally_, the definition of heartbreak, because it hadn't been that love didn't exist.

It had never been that love didn't exist. It had always been that Minerva hadn't loved him enough to accept his darkness the way that Hermione Malfoy loved Draco.

It was the hardest Truth Voldemort had ever had to accept. But in this moment, he was _Tom_—just for a second, and the man who'd loved Minerva with everything he had, despite his darkness. _Tom_ could accept that love _did_ exist, and it had never been him, despite his monstrosity.

He'd been willing to fight for her. He had always been willing to fight for her, just not change…and if she had loved him half as much, then she would have been willing to accept that he never would change, and love him anyway.

Tom disappeared, all pieces of his soul where they should be except for Harry that clawed mentally to continue to see, but Draco had been watching him closely. He'd seen the shift, though it was slight.

Voldemort rose with the innate grace he'd held even as a child.

"Go to your wife, Draco," he said coldly, but there was more meaning in those words than any Draco had ever heard him say. "Go and repair yourself in the arms of the woman who loves you. We start your _real_ training tomorrow."

_Go to your wife_.

_Go to your wife._

_Go and repair yourself in the arms of the woman who loves you. _

Draco wondered if Lord Voldemort had ever had a wife…

He stood on weak limbs, and left with a quiet _pop_.

Harry let go and went flinging back into his own space and mind, alone, but worried because he'd just seen a Voldemort that Dumbledore had sworn didn't exist: a man who recognized and valued love, despite how much he sneered at it.

Harry rubbed his chest, only to realize it wasn't his heart that hurt—it was Voldemort's. He didn't know what to do with that, so he closed his eyes, and tried to get some more sleep.

* * *

_Tom watched as Minerva danced, and laughed…with another. _

_She was better than that ministry employee with no aspirations. More than that average height buffoon with the ridiculous name of Elphinstone Urquart. Greater than that spineless goat that Tom could crush easily. _

_She was his. _

_Didn't she know? Couldn't she feel it? It didn't matter that they hadn't seen each other in years—_she was his_. _

_The newlyweds shared a kiss for a photograph, and thunder roared in the distance. _

_It hurt to watch her be happy without him. But even worse, it enraged him that she thought she could escape him. _

"Fool_," he whispered harshly to Minerva who couldn't see or hear him as he watched on. How could she think she'd ever leave him, if Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort controlled the world? _

_She wouldn't be allowed to. _

_She wouldn't be able to, and that was the greatest power of all: the ability to keep those we love. The ability to possess completely those we desire._

_Mother. Father. Lover. _

"_Liar," he heard her in his mind. Her imaginary voice was filled with tears._

_He didn't want to know what treachery her conjured voice accused him of in his reprieve into insanity; he knew he'd lied to her too many times._

* * *

Hermione met Draco out on the courtyard, by the Blake Lake. He sent a letter via his personal _falcon_ to meet him there, which nearly gave Professor Vector a heart attack.

_Dear Merlin, is it delivering a letter Mrs. Malfoy, or trying to claw your eyes out?!_

It sufficed to say that Hermione was not amused. But as she approached, she noted the blanket on the ground, and the illuminated circle surrounding the blanket enchanted into the dirt and grass. The stars twinkled above them like sparkling diamonds.

The breeze was uncharacteristically warm for the season, which felt like a little piece of heaven on her skin.

"What are we doing here, Draco?" Hermione asked quietly.

He didn't question why or when she moved on from 'Malfoy.' She loved him. That was answer enough, and though he was heir of Voldemort now, he felt as though he'd never understood love before tonight.

What irony, that the monster widely believed to have no heart or hope had taught him more about love in one night than Dumbledore had in years of casually preaching in all of his speeches.

Love was refuge and sanctuary.

"Draco," Hermione brought him to attention. "What are we doing here?" she repeated.

He wanted to lie. But he'd been blessed by the moon—it gave him strength and hope and _magic_.

"What's the hardest truth you've ever had to accept?" he reached for her the way he always had—with complete precision and purpose.

"What's this about?"

"What's the hardest truth you've ever had to accept?" he pushed. He pushed because he always pushed, and he didn't know how else to _be_, let alone _love_.

"I don't know," Hermione lied. Her heart pounded against her chest like a rocket ship pushing against stratospheres, and her hands shook a bit.

"Have you even accepted your hardest truth yet?" he wondered.

Hermione's eyes flared, and Draco's lips twitched in amusement and awe because, _fuck, he loved her back._

"What do you want, Malfoy?"

Oh, there was that wall.

Draco saw his name for what it was—a shield. But tonight wasn't about building barriers. It was about breaking them.

It was terrifying, but also exhilarating; the moon wouldn't abandon him; his magic wouldn't forsake him when he needed it most now.

"Creatures like you aren't made for monsters like me," Draco whispered tenderly, telling her everything that needed to be said without the actual words.

"Why are we here, Malfoy?" Hermione crossed her arms. The stars danced in the sky above them.

"I'm romancing you," he smirked arrogantly, but there was something she knew she was missing. There was something that she couldn't see.

"Why?"

"Because you deserve it," he shrugged. "But I don't deserve you. Not really. Don't even start, Granger. You know I'm right."

"Caring about someone isn't about what we _deserve_. Why does everything have a price for you?"

"_Everything has a price_," he reminded her solemnly. "Even emotions, whether you want to accept that or not."

_Everything has a price. _

"We're better than that," Hermione insisted.

_We all have our crosses to bear. _

"Not during war. No one is in war."

_I want you to be great. _

"We could still try," she pleaded with those eyes of hers that always made him feel like his heart was in a vice. "We don't have to accept everything as our lot in life. _You_ don't have to just _accept everything_. You're stronger than that. I know you are. I've _seen you_ be."

_Go to your wife._

They breathed in tandem as their bodies brushed against each other, but what was brewing between them was larger than even them.

_Forget what you know. _

"Damn you, Granger, for seeing the world in a way I never have. You see _me_ in a light that makes me—" Draco laid his forehead against hers. His words were rough and raw, but his hands were gentle as they caressed her arms. "You make me want to _fucking live _like I never knew I could. Like I didn't know was possible, and that's _so bloody dangerous_."

_Go and repair yourself in the arms of the woman who loves you. _

Hermione's heart beat furiously in her chest, because _damn it_, she wanted him to mean it. She wanted it to mean what she thought it meant.

_I love you_.

Yeah, they were one of _those_ couples now. She didn't even want to fight it anymore. Denial was a lot harder than faith—faith in him, faith in herself, faith in _them_.

_I'm yours._

She wanted to surrender to the fury of him—to his darkness and brutal love.

_Malfoy women are strong when Malfoy men can't be._

"_I love you_," Hermione gave in with shuddering breath and a sob of relief and fear caught in her throat. "_De magia et fides,_" she vowed, _on my magic and my honor_ because she wasn't a mudblood—she was a witch and her magic wouldn't let her lie.

_Pick your battles._

Draco shut his eyes—"I love you back, Granger," He said gruffly. He was so scared he was almost trembling, but _fuck it_, because this was a battle worth fighting—this was _worth fighting for_. "_I love you back. De magia et fides. Fucking forever."_

_Fucking forever._

* * *

Darkness lived in some men, like love lived in others; it was born inside of them, inspired by circumstance to reveal itself; but men who were _touched_ by this darkness lived a life full of contradiction; some days they were warm and happy, content with love as its own reward; other days they were cold, calculating, restless with life and the lack of power. Tom had always been such a man.

_The night was brisk, and the moon was high in the sky as Minerva sat next to her windowsill in the small cottage her husband had bought them. Her eyes roamed the sky. _

"_Where's your mudblood?" Tom's steady voice interrupted the silence._

_She couldn't see that his insides felt like a jumbled mess—up, down, twirling and twirling until he could barely hold himself together. Horcruxes always did that him—make him _vulnerable, weak.

_But he wasn't weak. Not since he was at the mercy of _those muggles_ at the orphanage. No, he'd never be weak again. His heart wanted to detonate and shatter inside of him, but Minerva couldn't see that. _

_He wouldn't let her. _

_Minerva turned slowly to face him, but she wasn't surprised. She was always waiting for him, searching for him—he'd imprinted himself so fully in her._

"_Why are you here, Tom?" she asked coldly, but he was shaking. His eyes were so open, so honest, that she knew he'd done something horrible. _

"_Why did you marry him?" _

_It was such a left-field question, and yet the only question worth asking. It was the last battle line she'd drawn between them. _

"_Because I thought I could change you," she frowned and looked away. She didn't want to relieve this realization, but he deserved the truth, if nothing else. "You were everything I thought I wanted, but there was so much Darkness inside of you—too much. I thought I could change you, bring light—_love_—into your life, and you'd change. But you never did. It just consumed you."_

"_It was a foolish endeavor on your part," Tom gritted his teeth and glowered at her. He didn't want anyone to change him; he wanted to be accepted as he was. "People are who they are, my dear. Nothing can change a person's nature." _

"_But you let me believe I could," she snarled at him, she was so furious. It didn't matter that she'd married another. It would never matter, because her heart would always belong to Tom. "You, with your kisses and your touch let me believe that there could be more. That I could somehow bring you salvation." _

_His eyes burned with pity as he walked over to her, and knelt like a knight of old, bringing their eyes somewhat level. His hands touched hers, and magic flowed between them as though they were one. _

"_I was never meant to be saved," he lifted her hand to his lips, and pressed a kiss gently to her knuckles. His heartrate spiked, and so did hers. They were together though there was so much separating them—her marriage, his murders. Her devotion to Dumbledore, his reckless abandon in Dark Magic; he could still feel the effects of creating the Horcrux coursing through his veins. Just one more, and he'd have seven—he'd never be completely human again. "Why didn't you take his name?" _

_His question hurt Minerva deeply because she was sure he knew, he just wanted to hear her say it. Tom saw the resistance in her gaze, and his lips trailed up into the underside of her forearm. "Please," he whispered. _

_It was too much, and she caved. She caved because she loved him too much, and she always would. _

"_I had only ever dreamed of changing my name to yours," she said quietly, lips trembling slightly in heartbreak. "He wanted me to, but I just couldn't. _You know_ how much I loved you—how much I love you, still." _

_Tom hesitated, but he slowly reached into his cloak, and took out a cursed blade he'd borrowed from Bellatrix Lestarange. He pressed the tip of the dagger to the inside of Minerva's forearm. _

_She flinched, but didn't move away. She cried silent tears as he carved his name into her skin, forever. _

"_Monster," she sobbed once he'd finished. "_Monster_."_

_It was too much—why couldn't she love him without the conditions? Why couldn't _she_ be the one to change for him? _

_Tom felt like he was on a rollercoaster ride, up and down on a journey with Minerva that he couldn't truly understand. _

_It was then that he grasped that love wasn't real. It could never be real, because if it was true, then there would be no condition. They would "love" each other despite it all, and no darkness, no light would be able to stand in between them. He stood up, panic and fear clashing in his chest over the thought of never seeing her again, but whatever was between them was a weakness. _

_The lie called love was a weakness. _

_Tom turned around and left, just as silently as he had come. But he'd written his love on her arm: Riddle_, _not Voldemort. _

* * *

"This won't end well, Miss Granger," McGonagall stepped out from the shadows where she'd observed the newlyweds. "Despite what you may think, I have been where you are, and it won't end well. Men like that, the darkness is too much. They are _too_ submerged in it to _want_ to step out of it."

"Maybe," Hermione nodded and accepted that truth after she shook off her surprise. "But we love each other, and I carry his name. We're forever linked as Mr. and _Mrs._ Malfoy. That'll get us through it—this war. It'll get us _past_ this."

"You love him, _Mrs. Malfoy_," McGonagall conceded the subtle point, but didn't give up. She looked upon her with sad eyes. "But men like him can't love. Not like you and I can. There is too much darkness inside of them. _I know_. He will never stop being who he is, and that will lead him to destruction. He will never love you like you wish he would, despite what he says. He simply cannot."

Hermione looked upon her favorite professor and took in her knowing eyes, her stiff posture, her defeated slope. Hermione pictured her young and vibrant, with the world waiting to bow at her fingertips.

_I know. _

Yeah, Hermione conceded. Maybe McGonagall did know. But she had vowed her love, and she'd never go back.

"Perhaps you are right, Professor," Hermione raised her chin. The defiant glint in her eyes expressed all that needed to be said, but Hermione was a Malfoy now, and Malfoys always hit where it hurt. "He may never love me like I want. It may never be enough, and his darkness might consume us both. But, that's okay, because if he can't, then I'll love him enough for the both of us."

McGonagall gasped, lips slightly parted, eyes wide, smooth wrinkled skin pallid in the light of the moon, as Hermione walked passed her.

Tears welled in McGonagall's eyes as she understood what she never had before: even if someone had warned her when she'd fallen in love with Tom that they would only end in disaster, she wouldn't have listened; there was no teacher like time and experience; there was no greater teacher than heartbreak.

Hermione Granger would have to learn the same way she did.

It tore at her heart that she couldn't save Hermione from herself, but McGonagall was a woman of strength and courage, of resilience and fortitude. She could brave any storm. So, she blinked back her tears, swallowed the lump in her throat and marched on.

Because that was what all women have done, and will always do—march on.

* * *

"_Are the rumor's true, Albus?"* _

"_I'm afraid so, Professor. The good and the bad."* _

_They both knew they weren't just talking about the deaths of James and Lily Potter, or the fall of the Dark Lord. They were talking about the death of Tom Riddle, a man only remembered as a man by Minerva, his once-upon-a-time lover, and Albus Dumbledore. _

_Minerva was glad he'd been beaten. She was distraught that he was dead. She was overjoyed that there would be peace. She was desolate that she'd have peace without him. _

_They were supposed to survive the odds._

_They'd never stood a chance. _

_She cried all night, and took a month off from teaching at Hogwarts. Dumbledore never asked her why. He already knew, and Minerva wished that Tom could've seen Dumbledore the way she did._

_But he was dead. _

_He was dead, and he would never come back—she cried harder. She never noticed the slight shadow that hovered about her window eerily, watching, waiting, because she tethered Tom to this world._

* * *

So, what do you guys think? Note, that the * came straight from HP. But it just fit so perfectly into my head-canon that I couldn't help but use it. Anywho, Liked it? Hated it? Let me know and Review! **Reviews are love**


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